


Of Flowers and Bullets

by Hyela



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Asperger Syndrome, Depression, Disability, F/M, Family Feels, Hypochondria, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Phasmophobia, Pteromerhanophobia, Queer Themes, Romance, Scarification, Self-Harm, Spiders, Suicide, character death (in one story)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyela/pseuds/Hyela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a compilation of short stories that are not necessarily linked together. I wish to explore some headcanons and diverse subject matters such as</p><p>-Suicide<br/>-Depression<br/>-Self-harm<br/>-Arachnophobia<br/>-Fear<br/>-Scarification<br/>-Asperger's Syndrome<br/>-Etc.</p><p>The mood will vary from heavy and sad to very light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning Ritual (Grantaire)

**Author's Note:**

> -English is not my first language and I don't have a beta.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First story is about Grantaire and how his little rituals are not always understood by Enjolras, but he tries anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -There'll be references to self-harm, alcoholism and depression.  
> -Contains E/R

**Morning Ritual**

  
_Exile_  
 _It takes your mind again_  
 _Exile_  
 _It takes your mind again_  
 _You've got suckers' luck_  
 _Have you given up?_

_Does it feel like a trial?_  
 _Does it trouble your mind the way you trouble mine?_  
~Exile Vilify -The National

 

  
Each day, at 7h30, the same view before him: the black bottle of Jack Daniel’s aligned next to a plastic shot glass, a red exacto cutter, a nail clipper, a shaving kit, a bowl of water and a mirror. Additionally, since a few days ago, there’s also a confused Enjolras watching him from the doorway leading to the room they now share. Grantaire can’t say that the perplexed, irritated gaze does wonders for his anxiety, but he can do with it. If suffering Enjolras’ heavy glares is the price to pay for his ‘half-hour of recovery’, as he likes to call it, he is willing to endure the man’s incomprehension, as long as he remains silent. Grantaire needs his thirty minutes of recovery.

First, he simply looks at his material. He takes in every little details. The exacto’s blade is still retracted. The mirror is cleaned from the usual dirty fingerprints that stains it. The shot glass is transparent, like always, so it looks like what they put your pills into at the hospital. The shaving kit, an oval leather box, is waiting to be opened. Each object is in the exact position that he puts them everyday on the kitchen table. Only the bottle of Jack is damaged. It is filthy with fingerprints, paint stains and dried liquor. The label is chipped and cut in various places. Grantaire has to grab it after a maximum of five minutes. So he does.

Slowly, he unscrews the bottle, bites into the cap without licking it, and carefully pours a mean five centilitre in the shot glass. He takes the exacto, draws out the blade and cut another line in the label of the bottle. He push on the button to retract the blade again and puts back the cutter to its place. He screws back the bottle and puts it away from him —to the right, because he is a leftist. Next, he grasps the shot glass, put it against his thick lips, threw back his head and swallows. The instant he’s finished, he throws the shot glass at the other side of the room.

Enjolras does not move to pick the glass up: he knows better. Last time, Grantaire shouted at him, an ugly, disconcerting expression stretching his features. He was not proud of that instance and apologized profusely afterwards, but he would scream again if his ritual was deranged. He could not help it.

Grantaire takes the nail clipper and takes the time to enjoy the stainless steel against his palm and fingers. His nails are not long at all, as he cuts them regularly, but he rather be safe than sorry: they do not need to be that long for Grantaire to gnaw at them until he draws blood. So he shortens them again. When he’s done, he puts the nail clipper back next to the cutter.

Last part is the most difficult, so Grantaire needs another five minutes to simply stare at his display. He lets his hands onto his laps and avoids looking to the left at the Jack. It’d be simpler to just get up and hide the bottle in the back of the pantry, behind the tons of canned goods that he buys when he’s too lazy to chop vegetables or boils pastas, but Grantaire is afraid that if he touches the bottle before the end, he won’t be able to resist it. He could also ask Enjolras, but he does not want to break the silence or to watch someone move and deconcentrate him. Each time Grantaire does this, Enjolras has to stay out of the way and avoid making any noise.

Breathing in, Grantaire places a hand on the leather shaving kit. He taps it, hesitates, and finally opens it. He empties it of its content, trying not to shake when his fingers touch the knife. It’s a nice, old straight razor with a polished wooden handle. Grantaire inherited it from his father. This is the only object that he got when his father died, but his old man loved the damn thing so very much that it had to be a sign of affection or acceptance, somehow. That or a morbid invitation, but that theory is just Grantaire’s mind tripping in its own melancholia.

Grantaire keeps the knife in his hand for a while, gauging its weight and looking critically at the blade to see if it was in any need of being sharpened. It did not, so Grantaire put it on the table and unscrewed the bottle of shaving cream. He took the brush, dipped it in the white mixture, and looked at himself into the mirror to apply it on his chin and cheeks.

Most of the time, Grantaire abhorred mirrors. There was only two into the apartment: the inevitable one in the bathroom, in which he avoided locking eyes with his reflection, and the cheap hand mirror he bought to do this. With the hand mirror and the shaving, Grantaire has no choice but to observe himself. His every trait repulse him. He finds that his big flat nose is far from flattering, that his mouth is too large, that his hair looks greasy and too long, and that his eyes are droopy and tern. If he dared smiling, he would see yellowing teeth from all the smoking. He still has some acne. His cheeks seem puffy instead of just round and healthy, like Courfeyrac’s. Nevertheless, Grantaire thought it was the perfect image for an individual such as himself to own. So, sometimes, he secretly enjoyed eying himself and felt satisfaction in not having a deceptive appearance.

The cream feels like a mask. Grantaire has never liked wearing masks. They felt like a wall between him and everyone else. He already had walls a mile long that kept him from getting too close to most people, despite his extroverted nature: he did not need more. He certainly did not need to give off an air of mystery to the people around him. The more you try to be mysterious, the more nosy curious you attract.

Grantaire’s hand trembles as it seizes the straight razor and get it close from his skin. However, as it finally touches his cheek, very near his eye, steadiness comes back to him. He shaves himself slowly and expertly, without breaking eye contact with his reflection. He cleans the blade in the bowl of water after every two strokes. He reminds himself to breath in and breath out. Everything is going fine. Then he shaves under his jaw, above his protuberant arteries. Everything is still fine. He finishes his work and sneers at his face in the mirror. This is the first time since the beginning that he breaks his expressionless image with some kind of feeling. Quickly, he cleans the blade and the brush into the water and practically throws them back into the leather kit along with the bottle of cream without drying them first. He gets up, takes the Jack Daniel’s and strut towards the pantry. He’s not afraid to give in, now. He has succeeded.

Grantaire goes to the bathroom to wipe off the rest of the shaving cream and to apply some aftershave. When he comes back, he steals a glance at the doorway to his room. Enjolras is still staring at him. He is pretty, even in the morning: his long blonde curly hair cascading down his shoulders, his red silk pajamas embracing his svelte figure, his perfectly smooth skin. Grantaire feels a stir of arousal. He knows he won’t get any, though. Enjolras is looking at him with that angry, determined expression of his. He is not angry at Grantaire, but he obviously has little patience this morning. He points at Grantaire and hisses between his teeth: “You and me. We have to talk. Now.”

  
*******   


  
Grantaire finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed while Enjolras paces in front of him, hands behind his back. He has not said anything yet. He is working out how to phrase each question in his head, as though this was an interview. Grantaire snorts. Enjolras and his anal need to be clear, concise and confident about everything.

Enjolras stops walking at the sound and looks up at Grantaire warily. When he sees that he is not being mocked, he opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. He’s visibly trying to ask something that will not be perceived as offensive. Before they began seeing each other, he had no qualms shutting Grantaire’s up, ignoring him or being savagely rude to him. This behaviour faded with time, and then disappeared completely the day Grantaire finally gathered the courage to confess his feelings. It was as if Enjolras had a protocol for annoying brash acquaintances, another for friends and yet another for significant others. He could not be mean to Grantaire anymore, unless it was inadvertently so. Grantaire is half-amused, half-insulted by that fact. He is amused, and maybe flattered, because that meant that Enjolras took extra care of not letting his annoyance get to him when Grantaire did something stupid, and he feels insulted because Enjolras probably thought Grantaire could not handle the harshness now that he was in a relationship.

“Why,” begins Enjolras, uncertainly dripping from the mere three letter word, “Why do you have to shut down each morning at the same goddamn hour to do that... ritual stuff?”

Before thinking about it, Grantaire simply shrugs. Enjolras scoffs and throws his hands up.

“Grantaire. I know that this is not as benign as it seems. You act as though you _have_ to do this thing. Every little detail has to be the same. Every object in the same position. Also, you seem to space out, to enter a trans... I don’t know. But this is seriously freaking me out and I would be less worried if you would open up a bit,” Enjolras lets out in almost one breath. The look he throws Grantaire is sad and tired. “Please,” he adds. “I want to understand.”

Grantaire avoids his begging eyes for a while and his gaze trails in the room. Truth is, he doesn’t know how to explain what is up with him. He never knew how. When he saw a therapist for a few months, the first three weekly appointments were filled with heavy silences and nothing else. His therapist kept telling him that he could talk whenever he wanted to, but that he’d feel much better if he let some out. Grantaire was not so sure. Silence is an important part of his ritual. He lives in a place with soundproof walls and closed windows for a reason. Silences are easier to deal with than all the familiar and new noises parasitising his mind every day. There was no melody that he liked more than the voice of his Enjolras carrying out, filled with hope, determination, bravery and love, but he despair at the sound of his own voice.

It is not as though Grantaire hates talking. He enjoys talking a lot. In fact, it is hard to shut him up once he has started. Talking was not the problem. Actually saying something was. Grantaire could rambles on and on without ever saying anything worthwhile, or something that made the least lick of sense to anybody. So how was he to explain himself to Enjolras?

He could not. So instead, he decides to get up and to remove his pants. Enjolras stares at him, mouth hanging opened and a flush spreading on his cheeks. He then sticks up his chin and rolls his eyes. “Now is not the time! I am trying to have a serious discussion, Grantaire!”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, darling,” mutters Grantaire with a sweet tone. He sits back on the bed, place his right foot on his left thigh and beckons Enjolras to approach. He does.

Enjolras had never really taken the time to look at Grantaire’s legs. Grantaire sleeps in pants and almost never wears shorts. When they have sex, which has happened only a few times yet, Enjolras is not exacly taking the time to admire Grantaire’s body —not that it’s much to look at anyway— and is more enthused to touch. He is surprised when Grantaire shows him the thin, white scars on the back of his legs. Surprised and perhaps a bit horrified.

“What happened?” Enjolras immediately asks. The sight must have dumb him down a little.

“What do you think?” Grantaire asks back. He is smiling, but looking directly at the white, perfectly straight lines is making him dizzy. He feels an itch, but he has the force to smother it. Fortunately, Enjolras confronted him after his ritual.

“You did that to yourself,” states Enjolras. “What I meant was, why would you? What prompted you to?”

“Oh. That’s not a cheery subject for a Saturday morning, love. Not sure I want to get into it. All you have to know is that what you have seen earlier? Is a remedy for those.”

Enjolras sits next to Grantaire on the bed. He puts his hand on his leg and brushes the scars with his index. He has an intense frown on his beautiful face, but he does not look angry anymore. He looks up at Grantaire until the man can look at him. Grantaire stares at a beauty spot next to Enjolras’ right eye, awaiting his beloved to refuse putting the conversation back to later.

“R. I have to insist. I... You know, the guys told me you had bouts of depression, and I thought I was prepared for that when I moved in. I regretted treating you badly before. Not because your, er condition?”

“Illness,” Grantaire corrects, but the word tastes like ashes and he wishes he could spit on it. He has never liked to blame his mood swings on an illness, even though that’s what depression was.

“Not because your illness makes you right on everything, but because I was unnecessarily mean a lot of the time.”

“I deserved it.”

“No, you did not,” Enjolras denies, “I met infinite variations of worst, downright despicable people in my life and I was not as impatient with them as I was with you sometimes. I guess I was stomping on my feelings, unwinding it all on you. I can be so blind... I–I’d hate for some of those,” he pokes gently at Grantaire’s leg, “to be on my behalf. But I need to know.”

Grantaire laughs and shakes his head. He puts back his leg on the floor and swings his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders, half hugging him. Enjolras hesitates, and then kisses the corner of Grantaire’s mouth, softly.

“This is emotional manipulation,” protests Grantaire half-heartedly, as a small unsure smile stretches Enjolras’ lips. He kisses Grantaire again, more insisting. Laughter bubbles again up Grantaire’s throat. “And by the way,” he says, trying to regain a serious tone, “No. Absolutely not. You are not to blame for any of those. You’d have been the nicest person in the world to me, and it would not have helped. Hell, some of them dates back from before I met you.”

Enjolras seems reassured, but worry is still imprinted on his traits. It is devastating to see him this worked up about it. Grantaire has no choice. He breaths in and out, tries to focus on what he is going to say.

“So. I used to hurt myself. A lot. I broke glasses and walked on the broken pieces on the floor. I drank so much that sometimes I passed out. I took my father’s straight razor to cut into my skin where people wouldn’t—”

“You shave yourself with the knife that you used to cut?” Enjolras gasps. He takes Grantaire’s head between his hands and check for injuries. Then, he seems to realize that he cut him off, which was not nice since it took Grantaire a lot of courage to even begin. Enjolras blushes and let go of Grantaire.

“Yes, I do. See, this is part of the ritual. Part of the process of testing myself. When I hurt myself, I often did it out of morbid fascination. You see, the pain that I felt inside would numb as the outside pain would intensify. Plus, I could control that pain. I could slash at my skin, pierce it lightly, create deep red lines... It demanded concentration, and while I was concentrated, it calmed me. It... it made me clear my mind. It made me stop caring so much, and when I cared to little to even move, it made me do something. It stopped the frustrating tears when they inevitably came.”

Grantaire makes a pause, doubting himself. He did not want his friends to know that he cried sometimes. They would assume that it was the case all the time, but truly, it was not. Mostly, depression was like someone holding your whole body under water: you could not moved as well as before, every senses were distorted, you could not breath without choking and you felt a weight pushing down. Your perceptions were othered. Sadness was part of the deal, but Grantaire dealt more with exhaustion, an intense feeling of worthlessness, loneliness and emptiness. Those simply did not match with Grantaire’s need to be social and to see his friends happy. He was constantly torn between helplessness and his desire for their ideals to come true; between his own urge to be left alone and do nothing, and his need for friendship and meaning. When it was too much, he hurt himself.

He wishes to say all of that to Enjolras, but nothing comes out. After the part with the tears, he feels more and more awkward admitting stuff to Enjolras. The latter nods slowly.

“Okay. So it’s to... to evacuate. Feelings. Or absence of feelings. You are not... I mean, it was not an act of hatred. O-or _extermination_ ,” Enjolras says, weighting his words.

Grantaire grins at the word, finding it cuter than he ought to.

“No,” he answers, “I am not suicidal. Do not worry about that. In fact, I do not hurt myself anymore. Well, okay. I still drink a little—”

“A lot, Grantaire. You still drink a lot.”

“I drink at night. Not during the day. Less than before. I don’t cut. I don’t walk on glass. I use plastic glasses. And this is my ritual that helps me accomplishing that.”

“Can I ask how?”

“Well. Making myself stop at one shot of alcohol. Using a knife on myself without making myself bleed. Clipping my nails so I don’t bite them, or try to claw at myself, which I used to do. Also, shaving off the cream feels oddly good. I can’t really rationalize it, Enjolras. It just helps. Having a fixed hour maintains my motivation high, too.”

Enjolras nods again. He places his head on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Thank you for telling me, anyhow,” he mumbles, “Looks like I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“It’s not easy. Talking about it. I’m not even sure how I did it. Perhaps I subconsciously prepared because I knew you were inevitably going to get nosy,” he suggests with a smile. Enjolras snorts. “Aren’t you even more freaked out than before? Knowing... all of this?”

“I rather know. I’m not... enchanted. I’m not sure I understand completely. But at least, I get it more than before. And I’m glad you trusted me enough to talk and not... I don’t know, shut off and leave.”

Grantaire feels a knot in his throat. He leans his head against Enjolras’. This is a bit strange, Enjolras being taller and everything, but he feels emotional and gooey inside. He takes Enjolras’ hand and laces their fingers.

“Thanks. Really appreciate it. Can I ask one thing? Does it help _you_ to cope with me? When you watch me do it, I mean.”

“Yes,” Enjolras lets out, almost inaudibly. “I watch because I got the feeling that something was going on, and because... well, in case I could do something.”

“So you’re watching over me. Like an angel!” Grantaire exclaims jokingly.

“Oh, I’m no Angel. I like to think I am benevolent, though. I like to think that my presence helps too. Is that a bit presumptuous?”

“Haha! A little, I guess. Does not mean it’s not true. Enjolras, you would be spitting on me and your presence would help.”

“I wish you had higher standards,” Enjolras sighs. “You don’t deserve to be spat on. I won’t be doing that. I... I care. About you and your well-being. A lot more than you give me credit for. A lot more than I can admit.”

It was as close to a “I love you” Grantaire has gotten since they started going out together. The feeling of tenderness engulfed him without warning, but it had to share him with the usual wariness and sentiment of not being worthy of any of Enjolras’ word.

Still. That was huge. And it felt so good.

“I love you,” blurts out Grantaire. Enjolras blinks and sinks against him, getting as close as he can.

“You do not have pants,” he declares.

“Yeah, that must seem a bit ridiculous.

“Don’t put them back on.”

Grantaire thinks that maybe he could stand to integrate Enjolras into his early ritual. Passing his trials, and then accepting some love from the man he cherished the most. That could be another challenge. Another ritual, albeit a more loving one.


	2. A Memento (Jehan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this one, Jehan gets himself a pretty neat scar on the side of his face. His friends are confused as to why he'd choose to hurt himself on purpose instead of just getting another tattoo. Jehan has more feelings than reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains talk about scarification. I am certainly not an expert, so sorry if it has a few (or a lot) of inaccuracies.
> 
> It also talks about depression.
> 
> Oh, and it is Jehan, so it can be a tad morbid.

  
_  
_**A Memento**  


_There’s a crack in my soul_  
 _You thought was a smile_  
 _Whatever doesn’t kill you_  
 _Is gonna leave a scar_  
~Leave a Scar -Marilyn Manson

 

  
Jehan stiffened when Bahorel poked at his cheek.

“If you keep poking at it, I won’t be held responsible for my actions,” growled Jehan in an attempt to sound grumpy.

He probably sounded ridiculous. People tended not to take him seriously when he was angry because he had a soft, feminine voice that was not conventional for his fairly masculine body. That was a shame. Anyhow, Bahorel was a hard person to intimidate. Most of the time, the opposite occurred: he scared off people, what with his height, his thunderous voice, his tattoo sleeves, his half-shaven haircut and his leather jacket. He was also someone who liked to seek trouble by testing his limits, even with his friends.

Jehan was surprised when the giant immediately stopped. He looked up from his book and noticed how strangely worried and perplexed Bahorel appeared to be. He was staring openly at Jehan’s face, as though he was trying to decipher something is the motifs that marred the skin there. Feuilly, who sat on the other side of the table, looked just as lost. He had his brows held high and his mouth was opened.

Frankly, Jehan did prepared himself for the stares and glares he would inevitably get from strangers, probably for the rest of his life. He had not taken into account that his friends would be part of the gaping crowd. He thought that they knew him well enough to be accustomed to his out-of-the-blue ideas and his eclectic style. Seemed like he had gone one step further than they ever expected. Perhaps that body modification was too hardcore, even for guys with dozens of tattoos covering their bodies.

“You poor lot!” Jehan exclaimed in a falsely jovial tone, “I guess I should not leave you like that, your mouths hanging open like fish. Ask your questions friends. I am ready.”

He was not. He was always bored by the “Why?” he received for the various things he did. He knew why they were asked, but he could never get used to people insatiable thirst for a rational explanation for everything. He had to make up things most of the time. Trouble was, he did not want to lie to his friends, so he had to resign himself to saying “I do not know” a lot, and that answer was never deemed acceptable by anyone. These words put together caused instant frustration for anyone who was at the receiving end of them.

“Aw, Jehan. I don’t mean to look at you funny, I swear, but... that’s not something I could have predicted,” began Bahorel, “I know that people can change when they take extended vacations in a foreign country to get better, but... wow. That’s some change, man.”

Feuilly acquiesced, but said nothing. He seemed to be deep in thought. He tilted his head and frowned. He was most likely trying to superimpose the image of the old Jehan from a month ago, to the new one, a drawing scarred on his right cheek. Jehan sighed.

“Well. I don’t really see what’s the big deal. I mean, it’s like a tattoo, but that took a longer process to stick.”

“The difference would be that tattoos only imply inked skin. There are literally chunks of your skin missing,” Bahorel said.

“Thank you, good sir. I had not noticed.”

“Funny. What I meant to say was, didn’t it hurt?”

Jehan shrugged. He had a high pain tolerance. He once stabbed himself in the foot by accident by walking naked on a piece of broken beer bottle: he had not felt anything until a very concerned Combeferre pointed out that his footprints were bloody —Joly had nearly fainted and had harassed him about tetanus and infections for the rest of the night. So when he went to the woman scar-artist, he was not scared. Not even a little nervous. He let her used her products and surgical knife, and he even felt a sort of glee when he felt her cut into his skin. Endorphin, perhaps.

“I do not fear pain. Self-inflicted pain, most particularly, fascinates me,” he answered. Feuilly and Bahorel shared a look. He guessed it worried them, but it was the truth: Jehan liked a little bit of pain. At the risk of feeling like a cliché, it made him feel alive. It motivated him to heal. To keep going.

“So, you would consider it self-harm,” Feuilly stated. That was not a question. Jehan did not like it.

“To a degree,” he sniffed, “but before anything, it is a form of art. Again, like tattoos. Perhaps a step further.”

“Art engraved into yourself...” Bahorel pondered, “Wow. Well, at least... it’s pretty.”

Jehan smirked. Bahorel was leaving some of his concern behind to better indulge into his love of the weird, special and unusual. Feuilly was looking less convinced. He still offered a half-smile.

  
*******   


  
“Grantaire texted me with a picture! But... what the hell were you thinking!” was the first thing Courfeyrac said about the scars when he opened the door to greet Jehan. The latter sighed and nearly turned around to leave, so Courfeyrac would have enough time to recover. He could not, though, because his friend grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into his home.

“Calm down, Courf,” Jehan simply said, “It must not be good to work yourself up in that state.”

After the Bahorel-Feuilly “debacle”, Jehan thought it would be a good idea to text his friends about the scars and to visit them so his sight would be less of a shock when the next meeting would come. Courfeyrac was apparently sick and had been stuck in bed for days. For that reason, he was the last one Jehan went to see.

His friends had had diverse reactions. Most of them were mixed up about the whole thing. Joly and Combeferre, especially, did not want to scold him, but it was obvious that they did not entirely approve. Joly even asked why he would disfigure himself in such a way. He did not meant to use that word, and he looked sorry, but it had pissed off Jehan a bit. Combeferre talked about how it’d be difficult now to find employment, or to avoid getting people’s attention. Jehan did not care.

Enjolras had asked if it was some kind of political statement —it was not— and Bossuet laughed uncontrollably before apologizing profusely. Both of them looked more curious than appalled, in their own way.

Grantaire had thought it was kind of cool. He had seemed to sense that Jehan did not want to talk about it so much, so he had only offered him a beer before heading off to work. His eyes lingered on the scar, misty and full of apparent comprehension.

Courfeyrac was crying.

Jehan wrinkled his nose when he saw the tears. It was not that he was insensitive to his friend’s feelings —in fact, he immediately felt a pang of worry— but he wondered what in the world Courfeyrac was making up in his head to look so sad. Jehan patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. When Courfeyrac seemed to shrink on himself, he let go of any inhibition and just hugged him tightly.

“Courf... everything is alright. Why are you crying? I’m perfectly fine!” he said reassuringly with his soft-spoken tone. He rubbed Courfeyrac’s back and waited for his friend to cease his tears. Courfeyrac pulled away and cupped Jehan’s cheek —the unscarred one.

“Feuilly told me it was self-harm. So I thought maybe you did it as a cry for help?” he said.

Jehan did his best not to pity his friend, since no one he knew liked to be pitied, but it was a hard thing to do. Courfeyrac was an open book and, right now, he looked so miserable. He had puffy eyes, his nose was red from blowing his nose, and his cheeks were tear-stained. The corners of his mouths were pulled down and he looked like he felt intensely guilty. Jehan’s heart melted a little.

“My good Courfeyrac... I did not do this out of despair. It was not a cry for help. You have absolutely nothing to do with the decision process that I went through and, had you been with me, I doubt that you would have been able to keep me from doing it.”

“But then, what was it?” Courfeyrac cried, “You cannot expect me to not worry about the possibility that it has a link with your mood swings and burnout. You disappear a whole month, send almost no e-mails, and come back scarred!”

Jehan mussed Courfeyrac’s curly black hair. “It’s art, Courf. It might have something to do with how I felt before I left the country, but I doubt it was a result of it. I’m feeling much better. Actually, I’m better now that I have it.”

Courfeyrac took Jehan’s chin between his fingers and made him turn his face so he could observe the carved motif.

“I bet it hurt and you did not even noticed,” Courfeyrac remarked. He did not wait for Jehan’ response before pursuing. “Did it take a lot of time to heal?”

“Yes, and a lot of care too.”

“Like... you had to apply something on it?”

“I had to clean it a to, to put some antibiotic ointment on it, and to keep the skin irritated to prevent it from healing too fast,” Jehan said. “Do you want me to tell you the entire process I went through?”

Courfeyrac wrinkled his nose. “No, thank you. That’s an awful lot of trouble for something you could have tattooed.”

“Only because you still see them as wounds,” Jehan retorted.

“Well. Yes. I’ll have to get use to it, but... I guess it _fits_ you,” Courfeyrac concluded.

Jehan grinned and patted him on the arm. Count on Courfeyrac to say something simple, yet for it to be the thing you wanted and needed to hear. It _fitted_ him. It was a part of him. Jehan hoped that, with time, his friends would come to be unable to imagine him without the scar.

  
*******   


  
Back home, Jehan posted himself in front of his sliding mirror wardrobe doors. He touched his scar lightly. It felt good, both for his cheek and for his fingers. The carved chrysanthemum was now pink and it would pale even more. He wondered what his friends’ reaction would have been had they seen him when the flesh was blood red. Most likely worse.

He could not help but to marvel at his own sight, feeling a tad like a modern Narcissus. Courfeyrac was right. It fitted him. It was now an ingrained part of him. It reflected on the outside what tormented him on the inside on a regular basis, but without being glaringly morbid.

The chrysanthemum signified death. In France, at least.

Jehan had no intention to die. He might have been depressed lately, but the melancholia was just as much a part of him than the flower, and he did not hate himself enough to deprive himself from all the sights and wonders of the world that he had yet to see. Grantaire had told him once that his own depression often made him feel indifferent, which he abhorred. Jehan could not relate to that. He never felt indifferent. He was simply slowly drowning in a sort of _ennui_ and longing that he could not name.

The flower was helping. He could not have explained to his friends why he chose scarification, but he could talk about the flower. Inner beauty, extern beauty, symbol of death. Death did not have to be a finishing point for everything: it could also be a new beginning. Putting an end to something and hoping to start something new, something better. Flowers blossomed and then withered to leave space for new flowers. Mother Nature, an awe-worthy force to be reckoned with, wanted it that way. Just like the flowers, some aspects of Jehan would withered and die. Fortunately, even with all the bad, Jehan always found a way to renew himself, to make something bloom.

He had always thought that his body should reflect his ability to see silver linings in dark, obstructing clouds. It unnerved him when he could not control the way he looked like, the way he had to present himself. Hell with the “correct” appearance, the expectations and the prejudices. He would sport his flower proudly and deal with the consequences. Better that than suffocating inside with a thousand imageries that were waiting to burst out.

Jehan already had four tattoos: a rose on his shoulder blade; a bird on his chest; a sol key symbol on his left leg; a praying mantis on his right arm. He had a pierced nose, a pierced bellybutton and various earrings. He had long hair that he dyed a different colour every month, and a folder saved in his computer with pictures of different hairstyles to try. He had make up, nail polish and masks. He had body paint stored in one of his closet which he used when Grantaire agreed to paint on him.

It was never enough.

There was so much to express through physical appearance, so much that wanted to be let out, yet it remained constricted inside. Jehan could only forced it out drop by drop. Nevertheless, the scar had been like an evacuation. Inspiration, joy and an overwhelming feeling of peace and autonomy had flowed inside him when he’d gone back to his hotel with the chrysanthemum. For some reason, he had to remove a little part of himself to at last let out what was camped in his soul. What he desperately wanted to share, to be associated with himself.

He did not thought it morbid or sick. He had always believed he needed to test his own limits for as long as he could, so that he would not lose track of who he was. The scarring was a survival technique, in the end. Scars told stories. Self-inflicted ones told twice as much. They had meaning, more so than any added alien objects that one could glue to their body.

When you scarred yourself, you avoided doing worse. You also refrained from hurting other people. Well. Perhaps that one was not exactly true: whatever you made your body and mind endure had a certain impact on your loved ones, but at least they were only weirded out. This was an uneasiness that would pass. It was better than starting to do really reckless things, like Jehan was prone to do before taking his extended vacations. But that was the past. Today was a new day, with new colours and new senses.

Jehan smiled to himself.

He felt happy. And whole.


	3. Eat a Bowl of Lucky Charms, Bossuet Lesgle! (Bossuet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third story is about how Bossuet's fear is keeping him from doing nice stuff with his lovers, like going in Ireland for his birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -In this chapter, there's talk about the fear of flying, that actually hides another fear.
> 
> -It is light enough, mostly domestic and a bit cheesy I guess.
> 
> -Contains Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta

_Luck is a very thin wire between survival and disaster,_  
 _And not many people can keep their balance on it._  
~Hunter S. Thompson

 

  
There was no way in hell that Bossuet would go on that plane. He resented both his lovers for buying the tickets before talking to him about it, since it was wasted money, but he would not go, no matter how disappointed they looked or how many times they pleaded him.

He thought that it was peculiar that Musichetta appeared to be the most understanding of the two: she refrained from talking too much, caressed his arm soothingly and nodded when he growled a series of “no”. Joly, to the contrary, was getting a little bit upset. He was trying to rationalize with Bossuet, trying to convince him by any means. It was strange, because Joly suffered from hypochondria, which resembled a phobia, so Bossuet would have thought he’d had more empathy.

“I said no, Joly!” Bossuet exclaimed for what seemed like the hundredth time. He was usually patient, but now he was unnerved and a bit shaken. “Please stop harassing me. You’ll have to invite Grantaire or Marius, I don’t know, but I have absolutely no intention of going on a plane. Ever.”

“We cannot invite someone else! This is supposed to be like a honeymoon, not an escapade between friends. You always talked about how you’ve wanted to go to Ireland since you were a kid. And now you are ready to spit on that chance?”

“Joly, Bossuet has a phobia. We should have asked him,” intervened Musichetta. She was eying the two man warily; she was not used to see them argue that aggressively. They were more prone to jovial banter and rarely seriously disagreed on the important subjects. Actually, Bossuet and Joly each had more fights with the woman of their heart than with each other.

Joly looked up at Musichetta to stare openly at her. He wanted her to back him off, but when he saw that she was giving in to Bossuet’s stubbornness, he threw his hands up in the air and left the room.

Bossuet felt a pang of guilt in his chest. If he was honest with himself, the thought of going to Ireland to visit Joly’s family on his mother side and to spend a nice time with his two loves made him all warm and fuzzy inside. He did not get to leave the country a lot, and travelling excited him. Still, when he wanted to travel around, he did it to places accessible by car. And he usually went alone, or with extreme reluctance.

“He’ll get over it,” Musichetta said, trying to reassure him.

“I thought he would get it,” Bossuet muttered, “After all, we’ve known each other for years.”

“I know, but we planned this trip for your birthday. We had saved our money, and he was getting more and more giddy as the date approached. I guess he just expected you to be happy, and he was disconcerted when you were not.”

“It’s not that I’m not grateful, or that I don’t appreciate your efforts—”

“Don’t worry, I know.”

“—but I won’t lie, if I decided to go, it would be a true ordeal. Not just for me. I think I’m getting sick just to think about it.”

Musichetta sighed and kissed him on the lips. She trailed her hands on his face and kept kissing him, pouring all she could of love and acceptance into it. She had that strange habit of keeping her eyes opened while she kissed, observing his reaction. When he finally relaxed, she let go.

“No one will be forcing you, my love,” she said. “Despite what Joly might think, it is not the end of the world. We can always cancel our trip and go elsewhere.”

“Don’t do that,” Bosset protested, “You already paid for it and you were planning to go for a while. Just... I don’t know. Sell or give the third plane ticket. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Oh, Bossuet, dear. We did want to go, but we don’t want to abandon you here. It would not be the same without you anyway.” She paused. “I’m sorry. That sounded like I wanted to guilt-trip you. But I’m not. You are right, we should have talked to you.”

He pulled her into his lap and hugged her, burying his face into her neck to smell her perfect sent of paper and sun. She let out a laugh and hugged him back, kissing him on the cheek.

“I do not want you two to feel guilty either,” he mumbled.

“Aw, we’ll be fine Bossuet, I swear.”

He threw a glance to the doorway where Joly had disappeared. He wished he could be as certain and self-assured as she was.

  
***

  
As the date of the flight approached, Joly was still sulky and carried himself with the constant air of someone who felt insulted and aggravated. He talked to Musichetta and Bossuet, but he was obviously preoccupied, and the two of them were getting worried. Joly was the cheerful, dynamic optimist of the trio. Despite his perpetual fear of catching a disease, he remained strong, active and joyful. It was always a real pleasure to be by his side, because he had the knack to find something funny to say or to pump a bit of happiness into you. These days, though, he was withdrawn and grumpy.

Musichetta tried to convince Joly to give up the trip, but he insinuated that he wasn’t going to ruin his fun and vacations for Bossuet, even if it was his birthday. It had hurt, but Joly had later apologized. He said that he was antsy and tired because of the end of term, that perhaps he had gotten mononucleosis, and that he did not feel so well. He added that he was not trying to excuse his attitude and that he hoped Bossuet was not taking any of it too personally. Sadly, it did not do wonders for Bossuet’s impression of being in the way of his lover’s well-being.

“He is sad, discontent and disappointed,” he said one day to Musichetta as they were walking on the side of the road. “It’s not wearing off. He’s visibly making efforts, but I can tell that he’s hurting. I don’t know what to do!”

“He needs more time. When we’ll be in Dublin, he’s going to miss you so much that you won’t be able to get him off of you for a long while afterwards. He will not keep his hands away, you’ll see.”

She wanted to be comforting, but Bossuet had his doubts. What if, by refusing to go to Ireland, he had somehow broken something between Joly and himself? What if his darling thought he was an ungrateful, selfish, uncaring idiot? He wanted to voice those concerns, but he tripped and fell the moment he opened his mouth. Since he was holding Mushichetta’s hand, she fell after him and to her knees, hard. Bossuet found himself on his belly. His hands hurt. He looked at Musichetta, appalled. She had a surprised expression on her face and tears in her eyes.

Even when she started laughing, Bossuet felt like crying himself. He felt like shit. This was exactly why he did not want to go to Dublin.

Musichetta sobered up when she saw his tear-stained face and his angry moue. “Bossuet? Are you okay, baby? Did you hurt yourself badly?”

“No, just... it happens a lot,” he offered. That was not going to cut it. Bossuet had taken the habit of laughing at himself when something like that happened. If he was not laughing derisively at himself, his friends knew that something was up. Still, the accumulation of the week’s little miseries were getting to him and he did not find it in him to laugh it out this time. So, instead, he started crying.

  
***

  
At home, Musichetta led him to the bathroom where she proceeded to disinfect their wounds. Bossuet had stopped crying. He felt less heavy and a bit numb; a bit slow too. He observed his wife-to-be as she took his washed palms to apply some peroxide on them.

She was truly beautiful, with her generous curves, her olive skin and her long, dark curls. She was also an angel. She had waited on the sidewalk, sitting next to him, until he calmed down. She had not pressed him, not looked around in shame to see if other people were watching. She had simply put her hand on his shoulder and waited for him to gather the strength to stand up.

Bossuet wondered how in the hell he had won the love of such a woman. He wondered the same about Joly, from time to time. They got along well, but his bad luck often extended to his relationships. The first time he had tried dating, for instance, he had vomited on the girl and she had shouted at him for ten minutes in front of a growing crowd. Then, he had slid on his own vomit and broken his wrist.

Superstitious folks avoided him like he was a black cat —heh— or a broken mirror. Since the tender age of nine, his grandmother refused to go near him without what she called her lucky charms. Each year, for Christmas and for his birthday, she fabricated one of them for him. Bossuet put them in various places where he thought they could help if they really worked: under their pillows and under the king bed, above the stove, in the bathroom, on the rear view mirror of his car.... Even if they were rubbish, they were cute. Joly and Musichetta thought they were, anyway. They made Bossuet feel better about himself.

“Bossuet, you should have a serious discussion with Joly,” Musichetta declared solemnly. “You two can’t keep wading through your personal issues alone, trying to predict what the other is thinking. This is not healthy. I’m going to have to ask that you talk to him before we leave for Dublin.”

He nodded, defeated. There was no way he could argue against that. Besides, she was right. If he did not talk to Joly, he would feel like utter shit all the time they’d be gone. When he felt down, his luck was particularly low too. He did not know whether or not it was a coincidence.

  
***

  
Later that day, Musichetta headed in direction of the Musain to meet with the guys and to tell them that Bossuet and Joly would not be present. Bossuet texted Joly and, in a spontaneous burst of courage, told him about his fall and his crappy day. He asked if his friend could give up going to the meeting and come and see him instead.

_[Lesgle]: I hope it does not bother you_

_[Jolllllllly]: Not at all wait for me; shouldnt be too long_

So he waited.

He went to sit at the kitchen table and missed the chair, falling again on his ass. He decided to lie on the floor, tired and gloomy.

It took about twenty minutes for Joly to arrive, and by that time, Bossuet still had not moved. He sat up when he heard the sound of the door opening and closing, yawning. Joly appeared in the kitchen, looked around and caught his gaze. He was hiding something behind his back.

“What the— What are you doing on the floor?” he asked, abashed.

“What are you hiding behind your back?”

“I asked first. Bossuet, you could catch a cold!”

“What? Joly, it’s May!” he laughed, “The floor is not even a little cool. Oh, how was your last exam, by the way?”

Joly bit his lips and stared, standing his ground until Bossuet got up. He must have seen his palms in the process, because he let go of what he was holding and pounced on his lover to grab his hand and observe them.

“Have you disinfected those?”

“Yes,” Bossuet answered patiently.

“With water first, then peroxide?”

“Yes, Joly.”

“You should put bandages on them to prevent—”

“It’s okay; these are mere scratches. I’ve had worst.”

“Yes, but you never know! Viruses and bacteria can be so insidious and—”

Bossuet kissed Joly. He did not want to shut him up, and really, if Joly became panicky it would not be a good idea to come onto him until he had calmed down, but he needed it and he felt selfish. Fortunately, Joly cupped his face and kissed him back hungrily. They continued for a while, relaxing into each other’s arms. Bossuet felt better by the second. He let out a happy sigh when Joly pulled away.

“My exam went fine. I think I’ll pass. Yay?”

“Haha, yay indeed,” he said, smiling. Joly started kissing him again. On the lips, then the nose. Bossuet laughed. “I missed you.”

“I was not gone, you know.”

“You were elsewhere. Head up in a not so pretty cloud,” Bossuet retorted. Joly nodded and got a bit flustered.

“I know, I’ve not been a good friend lately,” he admitted. He put his fingers against Bossuet’s lips when he started to protest. “I was not angry at you, for the most part, but at the situation and at myself. I am sorry. And look!” he pointed at the object he had dropped on the floor.

Bossuet looked passed Joly at the box and laughter bubbled up his throat. Then he could not stop. He threw his head back and laughed, and laughed. Joly joined him, giggling gaily.

There was a box of Lucky Charms on the floor.

  
***

  
Two bowls of Lucky Charms without milk later, Bossuet felt full and content. He was eating the cereals with his fingers, making Joly roll his eyes. Sitting on the couch, they had not shared another word, simply enjoying each other’s presence. It was the first time since their little fight that Bossuet felt Joly being at peace. He was not frustrated anymore, nor avoidant or guilty. He was his cheerful self, with a milk mustache. It made Bossuet laugh.

At that moment, Musichetta came back from the Musain. She rarely assisted to the meetings if her two men were not there. It was not that she felt uncomfortable, or that the subjects discussed did not interest her, but she preferred to be in the company of her favourites. When she saw Joly, she snorted and immediately went to him. Oblivious, he looked at both of them questioningly. Musichetta leaned forward and licked his upper lip. He seemed to understand and made a ‘tss’ sound.

“Did you two talk?” Musichetta asked.

“Not yet,” Joly said. “We thought we’d have to do that with a full stomach and all the luck we could get from these.”

“Ah, Lucky Charms! I hope you kept me some,” Musichetta exclaimed, but she plunged her hand in Bossuet’s bowl and ate from it, grinning. He grinned back. “Taste like nostalgia. I was getting tired of Corn Flakes and Cheerios anyway.”

“Corn Flakes and Cheerios are excellent nutritive cereals and part of a good, balanced breakfast,” Joly recited, but he was smiling. Musichetta stuck her tongue at him.

“Happy to see that you two seem better. How so? I mean, if you did not talk.”

“Well,” Joly began, “To be honest, three long texts about how you were feeling miserable kind of make a guy melt with shame.”

“It was not your fault, Joly,” Bossuet protested.

“It kind of was, though? I was mean. The worst is that I was angry at my failure to please you, to make you happy, and that while I dwelt on that I made you really unhappy. Again, I’m sorry.”

“Aw shucks, you’re forgiven. There. Please don’t feel guilty on my behalf. Besides, perhaps I was a little rude when I just shouted “no” at you without explaining myself.”

“Would you like to? Explain yourself? I mean... I guess a fear of plane is pretty much self-explanatory...”

“I’m not really afraid of flying,” started Bossuet. He hesitated when his two lovers threw him identical inquisitive looks. He sighed. “I think I just inherited my grandma Sierra’s superstitiousness: I’m scared of myself. To be more precise, I’m scared of what could happen if I put myself in situation where my bad luck could take down many people with me. Ever wondered why my car is full of those knickknacks my grandma made?”

Understanding passed on Musichetta and Joly’s features. Musichetta leaned forward and swatted him on the side of the head.

“Bossuet Lesgle, are you telling us that each time we’re taking the car, you are afraid to be the cause of an accident, mortal or otherwise?”

Bossuet gulped at her tone. “Yes,” he admitted. “I think... I know this is not rational, okay. Please do not look at me like that. It’s just a thought that’s stronger than me, and a plane would be too much. I already feel a little anxious in a car, I can’t imagine a place.”

“Yeah, that’s even more irrational than Enjolras’ fear of spiders,” Musichetta said. “Next you are going to tell me that you are like that squirrel in Ice Age 2.”

“I relate to Scrat the Squirrel on a personal level,” he jokingly argued. Joly giggled and took his hand.

“But seriously,” Joly said, “Being prone to... exaggerate when I have some worrying symptoms, I should have shown better understanding. Whether you are afraid of planes, or making the plane explode somehow. I guess that we have different coping mechanisms. One of the reason I chose medicine was to feel better in control of my anxiety, along with helping people. So I thought that you would be like that too. But it’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to not be ready. To feel tired dealing with irrational, but harassing thoughts. I just want you to know... you are not bad luck to us. At all.”

Musichetta nodded. She took Bossuet’s other hand eagerly. “Absolutely not. In fact, I feel pretty lucky myself to have you, baby.”

“Even if you both found out that the Gods have cursed me?” he sniffed, getting emotional.

“Oh, come on! Who would curse such a cutie pie like you? Whoever they are, I don’t trust their opinion and I will curse them right back!” Joly exclaimed, winking at Bossuet.

“If a God has cursed you, when I meet them, I will totally kick their petty spell-casting ass,” added Musichetta. The air of determination lighting her face was funny and doing nice things to Bossuet’s groin. He smiled sheepishly.

“Thank you guys.” He paused. “I’m still not getting on that plane. Or any boat, for that matter.”

They laughed.

  
***

  
The three of them ended up not going to Ireland. Joly gave his tickets to his parents and sister, so they could visit their family instead. The trio spent that week lazing around in the apartment, lying on each other and having sex. Bossuet had tried to convince them to go anyway, but the two wouldn’t bulge. They even started talking about another travel plan for in a few months.

“But like, this time we’d use the car. Or a train. A train would be good, no?” Musichetta asked excitedly.

“Less constricting and claustrophobic than a plane. I’ll think about it.” Bossuet said.

For his birthday, Bossuet received at least seven boxes of Lucky Charms as gag-gifts from his friends, who got the word by Musichetta that the cereals had magically reconciled Joly and him. He also got a false white rabbit paw from Courfeyrac, a few clovers from Jehan, and a pack of homemade cards entirely constituted of sevens from Feuilly. Grantaire painted him as a black -but still redhead- leprechaun carrying a pot of gold and followed around by elves-like Joly and Musichetta. Someone else would have felt self-conscious, but Bossuet knew that his friends cared. They all signed him a card in which the words “You ARE our lucky charm!” was written. He felt flattered and giddy. He had to admit, though, the cereals were his favourites and he was glad that his friends overdid it.

“You should keep some of those for the trip! We should accumulate them. I’m sure they would help us and keep us lucky!” Joly joked, as they were eating, yet again, the delicious treat. Bossuet snorted.

“Yeah, why didn’t I think about that?”

“Because I’m the genius one.”

“ _You_ are the genius one? Why, Jolllly, I thought I was entitled to that title. I’m the one who gave our friends the idea.”

“Alright. Musichetta is the genius. I’m not too far behind, though.”

“I’m miles ahead of you!” Musichetta exclaimed. They started bickering lovingly.

Bossuet smiled. In that instant, he felt pretty lucky.


	4. Lloyd (Combeferre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is a simple story about Combeferre's littlest friend and Enjolras' phobia... Lloyd the spider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feature talk about arachnophobia.  
> Perhaps more info about tarantulas than you care to know.  
> Enjolras+Combeferre+Courfeyrac friendship.

_The Itsy Bitsy Spider crawled in from the sun_  
 _Crept into the crib, found the baby bun._  
 _Baby kept on crying til’ mumma’s work was done_  
 _And the Itsy Bitsy Spider crawled back out in the sun._

 

  
She was magnificent, and he could not have resisted her if he had wanted to. Her body was a mix of black, brown and orange with a strange pattern on her abdomen. The hair on her legs and body made her look fluffy. Her mandibles were moving slowly, as though she was testing the air.

According to Combeferre’s mother’s neighbour, she was a Mexican redknee tarantula. She was already five years old, and had only just finished molting a week ago. Mr Alvarez had allowed Combeferre to feed her live crickets, since her skin had hardened and that she was ready to eat again. It was fascinating to watch her hunt in her large fish tank.

“I don’t know if I’ve told you, but her name is Smithi Lloyd. This is because her scientific name is Brachypelma Smithi, and because I am fan of opera singer David Lloyd.” Mr Alvarez told Combeferre. He thought this was one excellent name for a spider.

Mr Alvarez was an old Mexican gentleman who lived next to Mrs Combeferre’s house He and Combeferre had bonded when the man saw him going outside one night to free a spider he had captured in his room. It was an odd coincidence, but the both of them shared a love for the world of insects and arachnids. As a child, Combeferre had wanted to become an entomologist. Mr Alvarez’s sister was an arachnologist, and so the man knew a lot of interesting facts about spiders. He had always owned some, most of them tarantulas. This made for some great conversations each time Combeferre visited his mother.

As of now, the old man only owned one spider, but he was ready to give her to Combeferre, for free, because he was moving in with his new girlfriend who was not found of eight-legged creatures. He contacted Combeferre’s mother and asked to know if her son would be interested to adopt his little arachnid. The next day, Combeferre was knocking at his door, giddy with excitement and gratefulness.

“I wrote down some websites for you, so you know how to care for her,” Mr Alvarez said, smirking. “Not that I doubt you’ve made your own researches. This is just in case.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to check them out.”

This is how Combeferre, ecstatic, carefully walked out of the place with a huge fish tank in a wheel cart, a box of small dead mice, a heat mat, and of course one Smithi Lloyd.

  
***

  
Back home, Combeferre placed the fish tank in a retreated corner of his room, away from the window and from the light. He did not install the heat-mat, since Lloyd wouldn’t need it before Fall, but he did put it away in a safe place where it would not get dirty or damaged. He let the mice in the fridge.

The rest of the Combeferre’s day was spent cooing over Lloyd. She was not doing much, but each movement she made was delightful to see. She was not hiding into her plant-pot retreat yet. Combeferre knew that he was not to handle her, but he could not resist touching one of her legs delicately. Lloyd seemed to stiffen a bit, made a few steps, then stopped. Amused, Combeferre did it again. This time, Lloyd kicked a cloud of hair with her back legs at his arm and hurried inside the plant-pot. Combeferre startled and felt immediately guilty. He closed the fish tank to leave her alone and went to the bathroom.

Red Knees tarantulas were known, just like some moths and butterflies, for throwing their hair instead of biting most of the time. A natural irritant, it could cause urticaria, blind their predators, or make them sneeze uncontrollably the time they fled away. Combeferre would have to control his urge to touch. He did not want his new friend to be stressed or disturbed. Spiders were fragile creatures: they did not need their intimacy violated by an over enthusiastic idiot. If he wanted Lloyd to live for a long time, and he counted on it, he’d have to be more careful.

There was already a small, but visible rash where the spider hairs touched his arm. It was becoming itchy. Combeferre splashed some water on it and avoided scratching it. He wondered if Lloyd had reacted because it was not Mr Alvarez teasing her, of if pet tarantulas were always that defensive. Whatever the case might be, he was to blame anyway.

  
*******   


  
“You cannot keep feeling guilty for something like that, ‘Ferre. I thought you were the rational, logical, science-loving one, here!” Courfeyrac said, rolling his eyes. He was sitting in front of his friend at his apartment, his head leaning against his palm and a bored expression on his face. The moment he had seen the spider he had scoffed, then laughed and called Combeferre an odd nerd.

Combeferre sighed heavily. “I know, I am not feeling that bad either. I just think that I acted like an overeager kid with a new toy, and it is embarrassing.”

“What is embarrassing is that you talk about it with much more respect than you do a lot of people,” retorted Courfeyrac.

“I give my patience to everyone, but my respect is a more valuable gem,” Combeferre stated. “Innocent living creatures are much more likely to get it than random human beings.”

“Oh, now you sound like Enjolras!”

“Why, what did he say?”

Combeferre startled, having not hear his friend coming. He turned to greet him with a nod. Enjolras was carrying books under his arm, his clothes were creased, his hair was loose and messy, and he had an irritated sneer stretching his lips. Obviously, he had been spending time with Grantaire. Combeferre still did not know if he approved, or if this slow development in their relationship worried him. He had no time to think further about it.

“That poor senile gentleman stubbornly think that insects are more deserving of respect than actual people,” Courfeyrac explained. There was no bite in his tone. He was more amused than anything else, and he even winked at Combeferre. Enjolras frowned.

“I don’t think that. Why does he sound like me?”

“You are both difficult and greedy with your respect. You don’t just befriend people, like I do, you have to know everything about them before you do so.”

“Hey, that’s not true at all!” Enjolras exclaimed.

“I don’t see that either,” Combeferre agreed.

Courfeyrac shook his head and shrugged. “Then again, you are not very self-aware. You are both very observant, yet this gaze is never turned inward.”

“As opposed to you?” Enjolras asked sarcastically.

“Me? I’m the perfect balance of narcissism and modesty! A born observer, nothing escape my hungry eyes, whether it be something about myself, or something about others.”

Enjolras snorted and Combeferre smiled affectionately. He beckoned hid friend to put his books on the table and sit.

“What brought this up, anyway?” Enjolras asked him, “Did you do something unusual?”

“He feels stupid because he touched a damn spider, and it did not like it,” Courfeyrac stated before Combeferre could say anything. Enjolras pulled a face.

“Indeed. Touching a spider should make you feel stupid. What, you tried to get it out of the house with your hands again instead of just stomping on it?”

“No. My mother’s neighbour gave me a tarantula. Her name is Lloyd,” answered Combeferre solemnly. Enjolras stared at him. There was a bit of shock in his eyes. Courfeyrac suddenly tense, like he was remembering something important, and shot a wary look at Enjolras. The latter ended up smiling.

“Oh, that’s your idea of a joke. Tarantulas don’t live nearby.”

“Hmm? No, she’s imported. People bread them,” Combeferre said. Surely Enjolras knew about that?

“You mean... you now have a spider as a pet?” Enjolras asked hesitatingly.

“Yes.”

Enjolras blanched and his hands stiffened, balling into fists. “Are you serious?”

It occurred to Combeferre that Enjolras was a bit grossed out by spiders. He shrugged, acquiescing, and saw Enjolras flex his fingers nervously. Perhaps he had a false idea of what a tarantula was, or what care it needed.

“Don’t worry. Lloyd has to stay in a fish tank, can’t be handled much, and she does not really bite. Red knees have more of a tendency to kick their hair at you, so the most you can have is a rash.” For emphasis, he showed Enjolras the reddened part of his arm. It was a bad idea.

Enjolras stood up mechanically, pale as a ghost, and left the apartment without even taking the time of grabbing his books.

Dumbfounded, Combeferre and Courfeyrac shared a look. Courfeyrac was biting his lips and had a guilty veil in his eyes. They got up and following their friend. He remained silent until he was outside the building, where he started shaking uncontrollably. He put his hand on his knees, leaned forward and proceeded to vomit. Courfeyrac rushed towards his friend and pulled back his long hair so it would not get messy. Combeferre just stared, like the speechless idiot he was.

Enjolras had shown no sign of being sick before they talked about Lloyd. So, the best guess was that he was actually arachnophobic. How could he have not know that fact? They had be friends for years! He had even seen spiders when Enjolras was with him, little ones. He had talked about insects and spiders. A lot. Why the topic had never been brought up, he did not know why. All Enjolras had cared to let his friends know was that he really hated spiders. Was he embarrassed? Ashamed? Didn’t he know himself that the thought of being in the same apartment as a big spider would freak him out this much?

Combeferre watched as Enjolras finished emptying his stomach and sank against Courfeyrac, who hugged him from behind. He did not feel betrayed. He did feel like something chipped a bit of his friendship with Enjolras, though. If Enjolras was so repulsed by spiders, he would not come to Combeferre’s appartment anymore. Combeferre did not want to get rid of Lloyd. However, he did not want to cause a stir in his relationship. He still cared more about Enjolras than his new pet. He felt miserable.

***

  
They ended up sitting in silence on the side of the sidewalk, Combeferre and Courfeyrac on each side of Enjolras. The blonde man had a persisting blush spread on his cheeks and ears. There were bits of vomit in strands of his hair. He was staring right ahead on the road, lost in thought. After a while, he cleared his throat.

“There’s a taste of acid in my mouth,” he muttered. Courfeyrac threw a glance at Combeferre, stood up and volunteered to go get a glass of water and something to wash Enjolras’ mouth and hair. He went back into the apartment. The minute he was gone, Combeferre grabbed Enjolras’ hand and squeezed it. Enjolras, who was all stiffed and stressed, relaxed. He looked at his friend.

“I am sorry. It took be by surprise,” he simply said, as though it was his fault.

“I’d have texted you, but I never knew you were actually arachnophobic. I just wonder how you managed to hide it from us for all these years.”

“I did not hide it from Courfeyrac,” Enjolras admitted. He searched Combeferre’s face for a sign of betrayal. It was there, along with a little bit of jealousy. He repressed that last feeling and quickly as he could, smothering it with the logical certitude that Enjolras did not hold a preference for any of his best friend, and that there must have been a reason for him to hide his phobia from Combeferre.

“Alright,” he said, his voice stern, “Then how did you hide it from me? You have never been ill like this before. Not in front of me, anyway.”

“I have been ill. I just excused myself. The spiders were small, though. And we got rid of them quickly enough. Yours is... a tarantula is huge. It can attack. And you can’t defend yourself, because it’s a... a pet. Your pet. So I panicked.”

Enjolras became redder, but he looked reassured when Combeferre merely nodded and squeezed his hand in an attempt to show him that he was not angry.

“You do not ask ‘why’?” Enjolras demanded.

“Will it hurt you to tell me?” asked back Combeferre.

The blonde sighed and passed his free hand on his face, rubbing his eyes. He sniffed and let go of Combeferre’s hand. “Well, there are a couple of reasons, but you are not going to like them.”

“To hell with what I like,” Combeferre scoffed, “I care about what you feel.” A tiny smile stretched Enjolras’ lips.

“Okay. Well, for one, I did not want to crap all over your hobby... passion. You have this look of utter fascination and happiness when you talk about insects, and when you get to observe them. You go to the Insectarium many times a month. You eat the god damn bugs, sometimes. I did not want something as ridiculous as a fear of spiders spoil your fun and interest.”

“Enjolras—”

“And before you tell me that I did not have to... It was not as self-sacrificing as you think. It was also selfish. I might not like the freaky creatures, but I certainly do like when you get enthusiastic about something.”

“I get enthusiastic about other subjects too,” Combeferre protested. Did his friend thought that his obsession with insects was the only thing that lightened his days?

“Sure. You are as serious and passionate about social and political issues as the rest of us. However, this relation you have with the bugs... It’s personal. It’s lighter. It had no real downside before now. You look so relaxed when you indulge in it. I’m like a fly in your favourite soup.”

Courfeyrac chose that moment to come back from the apartment, which muted Enjolras into silence. He drank from the plastic glass of water and let Courfeyrac sponge his face and hair with a wet towel. Combeferre did not want to press him, but he did not see why Courfeyrac’s presence should stop the dialogue. Their friend even seemed uneasy and frustrated.

“What else?”

“What?”

“You said there were a ‘couple’ of reasons. That implies two.”

Enjolras looked away. “I just thought you’d think me a fool. That’s all.”

Courfeyrac gaped at him and Combeferre frowned. They exchanged a glance and both swatted Enjolras on the sides of his head. He did not protest, but smiled slightly.

“You can’t be serious, Angel! You, a fool?” Courfeyrac exclaimed, “Nobody could think that you are stupid, least of all Combeferre.”

“But you see, that’s the problem,” Enjolras explained, “Since people expect me to be reasonable, I feel a bit inadequate being scared of... of such small things. I mean, I can pet big dogs, I don’t care about needles, planes, having my ass kicked, all of that... but I have physical reactions like getting so afraid to the point of shaking and vomiting because of spiders. I know they not all poisonous or aggressive, but all I can think about is how they could crawl on me without me noticing. How they could get into my clothes or my shoes. How they can bite me if I do something wrong. And how they’re so, so gross —I’m sorry Combeferre, I really don’t know what’s so beautiful to you about them. Obviously, you love them though, and perhaps I shouldn’t have assumed that you would laugh at me, but I genuinely felt bad about hating something that you like so much.”

Enjolras stopped, out of breath. He did not seem to want looking at Combeferre, but he did anyway, locking eyes with him, waiting for a reaction. Combeferre gulped and acquiesced. He might not have gotten Enjolras’ phobia, but he was empathetic and it hurt to see his friend shaming himself for it. He wetted his lips, searching frantically for something nice and comforting to say before it’d be too late. Courfeyrac beat him to the thing.

“Enjolras, one individual cannot be rational one hundred percent of the time. We have feelings, and although we can’t understand all of their causes, they exist. They’re here, with all of their complications and their nonsensical demands. Of course, it’d be unhealthy to give in to all of them, but give yourself a chance.”

“Courfeyrac is right,” agreed Combeferre, “And I don’t know how you could think that I would mock you or reject you, but that’s hardly the case. I was excited about Lloyd, and to be honest it would pain me to get rid of her, but I’d choose you anytime over a spider. Who do you take me for? I can even stop talking about them in your presence, if it bothers you so much.”

“You sound angry,” Enjolras said sheepishly.

“I’m angry. At the fact you did not trust me,” Combeferre replied. He hesitated, then he added: “And at the fact that Courfeyrac knew all this time while I was in the shadows.”

“And I’m angry too!” Courfeyrac added, though his tone was jovial, “For you to have make me keep this a secret. I don’t want to be the cause of Combeferre’s grief in any way, shape or form. I’m sorry, ‘Ferre.”

“You were just being a loyal friend,” Combeferre said simply. “Enjolras, I think that you had good intentions overall, but please understand that I do not think myself so intelligent as to degrade other people for their fears and anxieties. I have some of my own, you know.”

“You always seem so level-headed, though.”

“It depends. You know how I feel about deep water, right? Well last time I tried to swim at a beach, which was when I was fifteen, I cried,” he offered. Courfeyrac made a face and looked like he wanted to hug Combeferre. He was getting itchy with a need to make the people around him happy again. Enjolras felt this too and patted Courfeyrac on the shoulder. He looked at Combeferre.

“It’s true. I should have remembered that. I guess I kind of idealized you and forgot you had little human flaws. That’s weird. I know that you are a very nice and empathetic person at heart.”

“But you thought that Courfeyrac was more apt to understand than I’d be.”

Courfeyrac groaned. “If I’m so apt, than why the hell didn’t I think to prevent Enjolras from entering your building in the first place. See, you’re not the only one with failings, Angel.”

Enjolras laughed and put his head in his hands. “That’s alright. I shouldn’t have kept it a secret anyway. I only hope that you two can forgive me,” he said after a moment.

“Already did,” answered both Courfeyrac and Combeferre at the same time.

  
*******   


  
Combeferre ended up keeping Lloyd.

He had thought about letting her at his mother’s house and visiting every week to feed her and clean the fish tank, but Enjolras had refused categorically. He pretended that he was only badly surprised that time since he did not know he was sharing the same space as a huge spider. Combeferre was not convinced: it took a week for Enjolras to come back at his place, and even then he was very nervous. He was gripping Courfeyrac’s arm and shooting glances at the door that led to Combeferre’s room. Unable to concentrate, he did not stay very long.

The next time it happened, Enjolras had a mini panic-attack when he tried to go into Combeferre’s room to see the spider. He had thought that perhaps he would stop imagining Lloyd bigger and viler if he actually saw what she looked like. Combeferre was dubious, but Enjolras insisted. When it didn’t work, Courfeyrac said it would have been wiser to just ask for a photo or look at google image. Combeferre could not have agreed more. He asked Enjolras why he wouldn’t see a therapist instead of trying himself like that.

“I have no time for that,” he said. “I’m afraid they’d want to dwell on the cause of my phobia, and it’s really not something I want to explore right now. By the way, I did not tell Courfeyrac. You’re just as in the dark as everyone else on this one.”

“Should I be glad about that?”

“You’ll be the first I’ll tell. When I feel like it. Which might be never.”

“Okay, then.”

Three days later, Enjolras was back at Combeferre’s apartment. He had put on an overall, a skintight long-sleeve shirt, rubber gloves and a white hospital mask.

“I’m ready!” he exclaimed, giggling nervously. “This was Grantaire and Courfeyrac’s idea. I want to see her.”

Courfeyrac was laughing his ass off behind him. Combeferre stared at them, abashed and confused, but he let them in. He leaded Enjolras to his room and pointed at the corner where Lloyd was lazily chewing on the rest of her dead meal. Enjolras approached the fish tank. He did it step by step, walking like a robot, his eyes practically glistening. His outfit seemed to give him a little confidence. He stopped at one metre from the fish tank and just stared at Lloyd. She ignored him superbly.

“Do not knock on the glass,” quipped Courfeyrac, “You’ll disturb Combeferre’s girlfriend if you do.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. He went to stand behind Enjolras, and Enjolras blindly caught his hand.

“I can’t move,” he admitted in a breath. Combeferre nodded. He pulled slightly on his hand and squeezed it.

“It’s okay, Enjolras. I’m right here. The spider has never escaped her tank. If she does, she won’t be able to do it quick enough to get to you. I’d immediately get her. There is absolutely no danger. You are safe.”

“What would happened if she did get to me, though? Would she bite me?” he asked curiously.

“Probably not. Most likely, she would avoid you. If you move too brusquely, she might kick some hair at you, but it won’t be in your eyes since you’re standing. Since you’re wearing that, it would not affect you.”

“But if she did bite me?”

“The bite would be nothing worse than a bee sting. That type of tarantula is only mildly venomous, and non-lethal for humans. I assure you, you are safe with me, Enjolras.”

“Alright... and how does it feel when she crawls on you?” he asked, a little more self-assured.

“Personally, I think that it tickles, but I don’t do that much. Her hair is an irritant. It might itch. Still non-dangerous, especially if you have these clothes on.”

“Okay. I’m ready to go back.”

Enjolras got out of the room very slowly and backward, with Combeferre helping him, so he could always see Lloyd who remained unperturbed by the display. They closed the door and Enjolras went to sit at the kitchen table. His mask was the only thing he removed. He was visibly hot, but he also had a trembling smile. He was proud.

“I prepared myself mentally for it,” he said. “I didn’t know if I could do it, but I did it. See? No need of getting rid of your spider. I will... I think I will be alright with time. As long as the door is kept closed.”

“Of course, Enjolras. And if you have any question or need anything, if you want to go outside, if you want me to move it to my mother’s place anyway, just tell me. Please.”

“I’ll be fine. But thanks. This means a lot. She’s not that bad.”

“You liar! You were shitting your pants,” joked Combeferre. His gaze was affectionate. Enjolras slapped him on the arm.

When Enjolras left with Courfeyrac, Combeferre pulled him into his arms. They rarely hugged, but each time they did, it felt good, like their friendship was renewed again and again. Enjolras even kissed his head and patted him, as though he was the one needing reassurance.

After they were gone, Combeferre went back to his room, put his chair in front of the fish tank and smiled. Lloyd approached the glass and remained there, slowly moving her mandibles. It was impossible, but she looked like she was waving at him. It was adorable. Combeferre was grateful that Enjolras decided to make an effort and to reject the idea of his friend giving the spider up.

“It is likely that I will be the one to feed you for a long time. Hope you won’t mind, or miss Mr Alvarez too much,” he joked.

Lloyd made a sort of little backward jump and went to hide in her lair.

Combeferre laughed.

Everything was going to be fine between Enjolras and his eight-legged friend. He was now sure of it.


	5. The Walls Came Tumbling Down (Grantaire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there was going to be a suicide in the group, Les Amis would have thought about Grantaire. No one could have predicted that it would be Bahorel.  
> At least, that is what Grantaire thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mention of Suicide and major character death
> 
> Obviously, sentiments of grief and depression.
> 
> Not a very happy fic.
> 
> (Mention of E/R and Feuilly/Bahorel)

_A heart that’s full up like a landfill_  
 _A job that slowly kills you_  
 _Bruises that won’t heal_  
~No Surprises -Radio Head

  
There never was an appropriate weather for a funeral. Either it was too inappropriately sunny, or it was cliched-rainy, like it was in the movies. The time never quite fitted the mood: all you could see was the world around you that kept going on, indifferent to small and big tragedies alike. While every food tasted like ashes, while every colour was too vibrant, every sound too loud, there were very few people to care. One was expected to jump past the numbness as soon as possible, no matter how many condolences they got. Even if there was no point in doing so.

Grantaire did not go to Bahorel’s funerals. If he had gone, he’d have wanted to crawl into the coffin with his friend and to demand to be burned with him, so that their remains would be mixed before being passed to one of their family, like some sort of morbid trophy. That was not even an hyperbole, and his friends would have hated him for it. He would have been deemed too melodramatic; an attention-whore who used the passing of a loved one to bring the spot light on himself.

He was often accused of stealing the spotlight. When Enjolras tried to make a speech, or to read a text that he thought was important, Grantaire interrupted and could ramble for as long as the others would let him without getting angry. He would not have been great at honouring Bahorel. He would have vomited incomprehensible anecdotes, would have tried, inappropriately, to be funny so to make one of his friend’s five sisters smile. He hated to see youngster cry. In fact, he hated tears, period.

So he did not cry.

  
***

  
André Bahorel had shot himself in the head with a handgun —nobody knew where he had even gotten it— on a Sunday morning. He left a handwritten note that said:

“Thanks for everything. I don’t think I would have lasted any longer had I not known any of you. You all made me happy. Hope you’ll remember me as a happy person too.”

He was at home when he did it, and he was with his oldest sister, who was only a few years younger than himself. Apparently, he had locked himself in the bathroom when Brigitte came to visit him. He said that he had to leave now, and that she should come back later. The girl stayed with him, sensing that something was off, until he practically begged for her to go away. She eventually pretended to go, and her brother killed himself while she was in the kitchen, trying to call Feuilly. The poor girl had not uttered a word since.

Grantaire could not understand how Bahorel could have done it knowing that there was a chance his sister was still there. Perhaps he had been too trusting. Perhaps he was so in a hurried to die that he could not have waited a few more minutes had he wanted to. Perhaps he knew that Brigitte was going to call Feuilly, and that made him panic.

There were so many questions Grantaire would like to ask him. Mostly, he wondered if dying was as painful as living.

  
***

  
Joly and Bossuet came to see Grantaire a few days before the funeral. They were both way too stern, which was out of character. Grantaire was not used to see them with baggy red tired eyes and a grave expression. They were the most joyful, positive people he had had the chance to meet, but all trace of joy had now disappeared from their faces. They just sat at Grantaire’s table, sipping at their coffee and saying nothing.

At one point, Joly started to cry. First, he choked on his coffee, then he emitted a long whine that erupted into loud sobs. Sadness was insidious like that. Bossuet immediately embraced his friend. His eyes were glistening too and he probably had a lump in his throat because he was biting his lips strongly and was still not saying a thing. They both ended up staring at Grantaire.

Uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and excused himself to the bathroom. He let fifteen minutes pass, doing nothing besides staring at the bland wall before him. When he came back in the kitchen, Joly had calmed down. He casually asked his friends if they wanted to order pizza. Bossuet frowned, but nodded.

He knew that his friends had came to comfort him because, aside from the both of them, Bahorel was Grantaire’s closest friend. They had done a bad job. They did not worsen Grantaire’s state of mind, but they did not improve it either. In fact, Joly’s crying had sounded like the buzz of a fly: annoying and distracting. He did not want to be mean, and he was touched that Joly and Bossuet had thought about him, but he was not one to mingle with others to mourn. He was an atrocious mourner. All he did was to selfishly ponder at the technicalities of death. He did not know how to stay very sad for too long, or how to remember fondly his friend like it seemed to be the custom. He would miss him a lot though, that much he knew. He knew it because more than anything else, Grantaire felt empty. Emptier than before.

  
***

Courfeyrac was not one of Grantaire’s best friend, but he had always thought him a good fellow. He was like a brother to Enjolras and Combeferre after all; the centre of the mighty trio. He had not been particularly close to Bahorel, but that did not keep him from going to Grantaire’s place to rant about how the man was too good to be gone, and how it was so unfair that no one had seen anything. If they could have intervened, somehow, Bahorel would not have become another statistic, a poor man that the system had failed.

Courfeyrac had no reason for telling Grantaire any of that. He had two perfectly good friends that were well and alive to unwind to. Grantaire suspected that he thought it was easier to talk to someone like Grantaire than his friends. Some people have trouble being vulnerable in front of strangers; others are particularly anxious at the idea of letting their loved ones see them being weak. Not that grieving was a weakness, but it was easily exploitable. Fortunately for Courfeyrac, Grantaire was not the exploitative type. He listened patiently and tried not to start talking.

When Courfeyrac was done, he was a bit teary-eyed, but he smiled at Grantaire and thanked him. He asked if Grantaire had anything to tell him; that if he did, Courfeyrac would do the same for him and listen. Grantaire refused. Courfeyrac said that he understood, that Grantaire was really strong. He smiled tentatively and hugged him. Grantaire did not hug back, but he thanked Courfeyrac awkwardly and told him he could come back anytime if he needed an ear to listen again.

Secretly, he wished that Courfeyrac would not come back.

  
***

  
The day before the funeral, Combeferre called Grantaire to ask if he was going to come. Grantaire answered frankly that he did not know. When Combeferre insisted, Grantaire admitted that he did not want to make a promise that he was not sure he could keep. There was a silence at the other end of the phone, and Combeferre said that he understood. He then asked if Grantaire wanted to talk. Grantaire mumbled a quick no, thanked him and hung up.

Contrary to Courfeyrac, Grantaire supposed that it was likely that Combeferre did understand. He was not a very expressive guy, did not care much for crowds and had sometimes a hard time to let out something that was upsetting him. Once, when he was feeling especially talkative, Enjolras had told him that Combeferre often retreated to his room to confide into his pet spider and that he let Enjolras listen, but that he was unable to phrase some stuff when face to face. Also, while he could be tactile with Enjolras and Courfeyrac, Combeferre stiffened when random people tried to hug him or even just shake his hand. That probably had to do with Asperger, but Grantaire couldn’t have said. He was no expert and he had never taken the time to educate himself on that matter. The guys would be disappointed.

Still, Grantaire did not get why Combeferre would call at all. They were not close. The number of conversations he had shared with the guy could be counted on his fingers. He also thought that Combeferre might disapprove of Grantaire most of the time. He was a disturbance, and Combeferre liked order in his passion. There was also the fact that Enjolras was dear to him, and who would like to know that some useless slob incapable of properly mourning his own friend to be in love with their best friend?

Combeferre had no reason to be worried, though. Enjolras and his’ friendship had never been stable, let alone favourable for an eventual romance. He probably even knew that: Enjolras seemed to tolerate him most of the time. So why would Combeferre lose his precious time calling Grantaire? It was not as if they needed to know the exact number of people that would be present at the funeral home, or as if they needed another casket carrier. Combeferre was a tender, very nice person, but he did not always bother to contact people outside of his close circle.

Either Combeferre was so formal that he called every person that Bahorel knew one by one or —and now that he was thinking about it, that was a likely possibility— he thought that Grantaire was at risk.

Grantaire threw the phone on the floor. Then he sat down and just stared at it for a while.

  
***

  
Jehan was the next one to contact Grantaire. It was the day of the funeral. Grantaire went on a bender that day, so he did not really remember what his friend told him on the phone, but apparently he said something worrying because Jehan showed up with a bottle of ibuprofen and Chinese food at nine o’clock, waking up Grantaire who had slept most of the evening.

Grantaire took some pills to please him, but he was not feeling his hangover. Jehan also made him drink a lot of water. He kept eying him and doing stuff for him, like fluffing his pillow on the couch and cleaning up around the living room. When he proposed to wash the dishes, Grantaire almost kicked him out of the place. He refrained because Jehan was not Bahorel: he was sensitive enough. A rough matter, but sensitive nonetheless.

He wanted to ask what he had said on the phone, but he was not sure that he wanted to know. He was reputed for his drunk-dialling. Enjolras, most particularly, had had to endure a lot of it. He pretended that he did not really minded, but sometimes, he looked visibly upset. Sometimes, he actually looked happy, so it could go either way, but most likely Grantaire had told Jehan something stupid. He probably talked about his feelings, or the lack of thereof, and passed for a total sociopath. Fortunately, Jehan was not a fool and knew to dig deeper. Still. Having a worried friend at home was not the kind of interactions Grantaire liked the most.

They did not talk for a while. They put on a movie at random on Netflix, but when some of the first images showed the Earth exploding against a larger planet, they stopped it. The title should have ticked them off. _Melancholia_.

***

  
It was not that Grantaire was trying to make the suicide of Bahorel about himself. He did not mean to anger anyone by not going to the funeral, to the contrary. He had thought that his presence would not be missed. Nevertheless, Enjolras came to his place the next day and started throwing shit at him, everything that he could grab: the books that were lying around, the dirty clothes, the bibelots —which broke on the wall because Enjolras had a terrible aim when upset. He yelled at Grantaire that he was a selfish, irresponsible idiot. He said that people wondered where he was, that _of course_ he’d been drinking, because that was all he knew how to do well.

Grantaire let him tire himself, dodging some of the items and getting hit by others. One book hit him hard in the face. He put his hands where it hurt and crouched, groaning. Enjolras ceased his attack and immediately came to his aid. He kept saying that he was sorry again and again. Grantaire shook his head: it was fine. Enjolras needed to let off some steam. It was obvious that Grantaire’s supposed selfishness was distracting him from the oppressing thought that he would never see Bahorel again. When he told him that, Enjolras bursted into tears.

Much like with Joly, Grantaire felt the urge to disappear, to give the man some space without having to comfort him. Instead, he took Enjolras in his arms and let him cry and wet his T-shirt.

Enjolras most certainly felt guilty about Bahorel’s suicide. He was sort of their leader, despite his claims that the members of their little group were all equals. He felt responsible for the happiness of everyone. He thought that the only acceptable suffering was the one endured for a cause or a project to make the world better. That Bahorel would be so unhappy, that he would not tell anyone about it, for Enjolras, it counted as a failure.

It did not.

Grantaire murmured into his ear that it wasn’t his fault, that he was the best person one could have in their life, that Bahorel adored him and looked up to him, that sometimes, despair wins, but that it did not mean one should give up. Basically, he made one hell of a bullshit speech that he was making up as he went. He felt bad because he would not believe half of what he said, but he thought maybe that could work on Enjolras.

It did not.

Enjolras ended up slamming his hand against Grantaire’s mouth, frustration obvious in his eyes. He stared at Grantaire, tears streaming down his cheeks, while he was trying to catch his breath. Then, he replaced the hand with his mouth.

The sensation of being kissed by Enjolras should have felt wonderful. He had dreamt about it for ages, but had never dared hoping that it would come true. Unfortunately, Enjolras was apparently the king of bad-timing: Grantaire felt nothing. Enjolras’ lips felt warm and wet. He was not very good. His troubled respiration was annoying, and so was his long hair tickling Grantaire’s face. Grantaire tried to kiss him harder, to find that desire that had always bubbled at the surface of his being whenever he saw Enjolras. There was nothing to do. He wasn’t feeling well enough.

Enjolras felt the reticence and pulled away, confused. Grantaire explained to him that it wasn’t really a good thing to let one’s sudden emotions control you while you were grieving. Enjolras was trying to cope and Grantaire did not want to be used that way. That was a complete and utter lie: he wanted to be used. He just did not know how to tap into positive emotions. He also did not want to use _Enjolras_.

The blonde blushed and mumbled some apologies. Grantaire shook his head and kissed him lightly on the lips.

“I love you,” he blurted. There was a high percentage of chance that Enjolras already knew given his expression. He nodded, but did not say it back. Grantaire was not disappointed.

  
***

  
Two weeks passed and Grantaire did not go the meetings. He went to work, then home, then work again and home again. He went to the grocery store once, and to the convenient store to buy cigarettes. That was about it. Joly and Bossuet came to visit again, but they did not stay too long because the more the days went by, the less Grantaire talked. Enjolras called a few times, but Grantaire did not always answer.

  
***

  
He saw Éponine at the convenience store. She was buying herself a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of coke. She was not really Bahorel’s friend, but she still seemed affected by everyone else’s gloominess since she sometimes hung out with them when Marius was there. She asked if he was alright. He looked pale and like he wasn’t eating properly. Grantaire laughed —there was no joy in it— and said that everything was just fine.

  
***

  
Marius and Cosette acted like a strange little couple eager to please and to make the world better around them. They would do favours for everyone who needed them without gripe. That was a perfect example of people who did not know what to do during their friends’ time of grief, but who managed to be useful and well-liked. Courfeyrac became even closer to Marius, it seemed.

Grantaire envied them.

  
***

  
When Grantaire finally got to talk with Feuilly, a month had passed. The man had buried himself into work and had also missed a few meetings with the group. When Grantaire saw him, he just looked subsided, morose and like he wanted to be left alone.

Grantaire and Feuilly had always gotten alone, but they did not hang out as much as they could have. They were both more of Bahorel’s friends than each other’s. Some people thought that it did not made much sense, given that Grantaire and Feuilly were both interested in art. The thing was, Feuilly could have been a more down-to-Earth version of Enjolras. He worked very hard, clung to hopeful and optimistic thoughts, and was prone to bouts of passionate anger about social and political issues. He expected people to make an effort, but always seemed to see the best in them. This part of him was almost as intimidating as Enjolras was to Grantaire.

Once, when Grantaire was still in college, he sneaked Feuilly into a class about Art History that concentrated on Romanticism in the XVIII century. Feuilly had been ecstatic. He had almost cried at the end of the class, but he thanked Grantaire with a formal tone. It was not as though he could not have researched any of the information they had received, but he had been grateful and happy. That was the most intimate moment they had spent together. The rest of the time, Bahorel was there, so they drank, acted like fools and played cards, dominos and pool.

They never had a proper conversation about art. In fact, Grantaire never talked much about art anymore. He thought that everything that came out of his mouth was regurgitated rubbish or pretentious ideas. He still painted, but he kept the paintings for himself or slowly destroyed them, transforming them into something more personal.

Feuilly thought he would one day become an artist of some kind, or at least an artisan, even if he could only make fans or cheap jewels made out of recycled material. Grantaire did not even see the artist in himself. He was good at daubing and scribbling, nothing more.

Feuilly was a valiant worker who might even go to college and get a degree one of these days. Grantaire was condemned to work customer service jobs. He had no trouble depicting himself in the future as a forty-something pizza delivery man. Not that it was a job to be mocked or despised, some of the best people Grantaire knew had worked at McDonald’s, but he thought that it was pathetic that he could not do anything else. So, ashamed, he did not actively seek Feuilly’s friendship to avoid pulling the man’s down.

He was very surprised when Feuilly phoned him and asked him if he wanted to come and have a beer. He almost said no, because that would mean getting into the apartment where Bahorel shot himself, but when he thought about Feuilly hanging there alone, he changed his mind and went.

The relationship between Bahorel and Feuilly had been the ‘going-on-and-off’ again type, but without ever a drop of venom in it. They met when they were eighteen, became roommates, and never left each other’s side ever since. They really went with the ‘til death do us part’ road. Grantaire bet they did not predicted it would be so soon. From what he had seen, Bahorel loved women too much to give them up and only looked at some guys once in a while, but he considered himself bisexual. Feuilly had never bothered to confirm his sexuality. They just... clicked. They were as inseparable as Joly and Bossuet, or Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras.

When Grantaire got at Feuilly’s he avoided looking at the corridor at the end of which the bathroom was. He only downed two beers and stopped so he would not have to piss. It took him twenty minutes to barf out the question that was burning his lips despite having promised himself not to ask. He asked ‘why’. Feuilly eyed him curiously and, for a moment, he thought he had failed at friendship again.

“You don’t know?” Feuilly asked hesitantly.

“No.”

“I thought you would. You deal with such problems as depression and anxiety all the time. You know how exhausting it can be.”

“Depression is not necessarily a sign of suicidal intent,” protested Grantaire, frustrated.

Feuilly raised his hands calmly. “I know. Don’t worry. But I thought you would better understand the sentiment behind suicidal intent, that’s all. I’m sorry if I implied something offensive.”

“People seem to do that a lot, now that I think of it,” Grantaire admitted. “Everyone seems to be wary of me, lately. They are still mourning, so I don’t say anything, but I got the impression... Tell me, sincerely, were you surprised that it was Bahorel?”

Feuilly stared at him and frowned. He did not answer right away, thinking seriously about what he was going to answer. Sometimes, in serious discussions at the Musain, Feuilly would take about five minutes before answering someone if he thought he needed the time. He was a bit anal with giving precised, well-thought off responses to people, unless the topic of discussion was not that important. Grantaire remembered that it made Courfeyrac and Bahorel crazy, as they were not patient folks.

It was not that long before Feuilly opened his mouth this time. “Are you saying that you suppose that people think _you_ should have been the one?” he simply asked.

“Not ‘should’. But that they had been expecting it somehow.”

“Grantaire, that’s a serious accusation, there.”

“I’m not _accusing_ anyone, Feuilly. They wouldn’t have committed a crime by thinking that I was suicidal. I wouldn’t begrudge them thinking that, since it is a more logical alternative.”

“There’s no logical alternative to Bahorel’s death in which someone else dies. He would be very disturbed hearing you say that,” Feuilly said gravely. He kept staring at Grantaire, like what he was saying did not make sense. Grantaire felt a pang of irritation and confusion. How could Feuilly equate Grantaire and Bahorel’s situations like that?

“Here’s the thing: Bahorel had a great life. He was finally going to graduate, he had a brand new motorcycle, he had a big happy family, he had a loving partner, he had loyal friends.... He was a positive person, and probably one of the most upbeat one. He sook trouble for fun, but he was nice and generous at heart. He was always laughing and going along with whatever life brought him. I, on the other hand...” he trailed off.

Feuilly shook his head. “You want me to say that you suck compared to Bahorel?”

“I’m horrendously banal and useless!” Grantaire let out, “Whether you admit it or not, I have little going for myself at the moment. I can drink incredible amounts of alcohol in one night, I can make Enjolras angry in a matter of minutes and I can throw paint at an easel, and that’s about it. I disappear from the group, you don’t lose much. Everyone had been giving me these _looks_ like, if Bahorel was so depressed and did not see why to live for anymore, than why is he still alive!”

“Oh, Grantaire,” Feuilly breathed.

Grantaire hadn’t noticed, but tears were running down his face. He let them. Feuilly got up from his chair and went to sit next to Grantaire. He did not touch him, but he was looking at him with sympathy and his presence was somewhat comforting. Grantaire remained silent, so Feuilly spoke.

“I see how Bahorel’s suicide would have affected you that way. I can promise you though that the worth of a person is not proportional to their accomplishments”

Grantaire scoffed.

“Hear me out, Grantaire. We are your friends and we care about you. Perhaps some of them are worried about you because you did strange things in the past, like not being able to get up to go to the bathroom and piss in a bottle—” they exchanged a small smile at that, “—but it’s not a matter of wondering what you are still doing here. It’s a matter of wanting you to be still here the next morning, and the morning after, and on and on. See, when people that seemed perfectly happy kill themselves, the remaining get scared for their loved ones that do not seem happy.”

Grantaire shrugged. That sounded well and logical. He did not know if he completely believed it, but he would take it so his insides would stop hurting so much. Feuilly put a hand on his shoulder and shook him a little. It was probably meant to be taken figuratively.

“Bahorel thought the world of you, you know. He talked about you with a smile on his face. He got sad when you were, and happy when you looked better. He wouldn’t have want for you to kill yourself after him, and he would have tried to chase these obnoxious thoughts from your head.”

“He thought the world of _you_ ,” Grantaire protested petulantly. His cheeks were burning.

“This is not a fucking contest, punk,” said Feuilly jokingly. Grantaire barked a laugh, but it got a little shaky at the end.

“Yeah. Okay. I was awful to Bahorel, you know? I did not mourn him like I should have. I felt... dead inside. I did not feel like crying, or like reminiscing about my friend. I just wanted to immediately move on. What kind of a friend does that?”

“One with a hard time coping with depression and death at the same time,” Feuilly said. “Each person has their own way to go through loss. Don’t let anyone tell you how to feel. Most importantly, don’t force yourself. That would be more insulting to him if you weren’t true. And besides, you are not the only one. It took me two weeks to cry and to take a break from work.”

Feuilly smiled and looked down. He let go of Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire shivered and nodded. He regretted having been so concentrated on himself all these days. Had he talk to Feuilly earlier, perhaps he’d have been better at this mourning thing. On the other hand, he felt bad imposing this on Feuilly. His significant other died and, again, he was making this about himself. Embarrassed, he coughed and tried to wave it off.

“I’ll be fine, I think. Just so you know, I’m not going to throw myself under a train, or shoot myself, or anything. Oh. That was tasteless, sorry. I just... are _you_ okay? You’re the one who called me, and here I am wailing about feeling down and shit.”

“Heh, I don’t mind,” said Feuilly. He was wrinkling his hands and staring at nothing in particular. “It’s easier to deal with other people’s emotions. As for Bahorel, well he’s not there. Our feelings have more weight. We’re the one trapped here without him. That fucking... Sorry. I’m not okay, not yet. Don’t think I’ll ever be again, to be honest. But I called you because I can’t avoid dealing with it all my life. I wanted to see a friend. Talk. Do something other than work or projects.”

“I see. Well, anytime Feuilly.”

“I’ll answer your question, now.”

“What question?”

“‘Why?’”

“Oh, that,” Grantaire remembered. “Don’t feel obliged. Everyone has their theory, and it can just be painful to imagine... I don’t even suppose there’s a good answer to that one.”

“No, indeed,” Feuilly acquiesced, “There’s no logical reason. However, and I think it’s fine for me to tell you now, Bahorel had started seeing a therapist. He was not an unhappy person, so don’t think he just faked his joy and laughter all the time. Nevertheless, he had these huge bouts of depression. One minute he was hyper and ready to take a trip to Mexico for shit and giggles, and the next, he would withdrawn and be repulsed by the idea of doing something fun. When he was like that, he did not go to the meetings. He told people that no, he couldn’t grab a beer. He spent time in the bathroom doing nothing. That happened a few times a year. Perhaps he was an undiagnosed bipolar, who knows?  
One other thing you have to know about him was that he was a great observer. Hell, he probably noticed things about you that you don’t even know he knew. That’s what he did with me, and with his sisters. He did not miss a detail. He pretended not to notice, though. He did not want people to feel as though their privacy had been violated. And anyway, he never knew how to talk to people about personal matters. He would listen, but he had no real advice to give. He felt kind of useless at times because of that. I think, but I might be wrong, that it might have been a factor. Not interacting with people, but not knowing how to go in deep.  
Third one is... he felt like he had done everything he could have done. That is false, of course, but it was a persistent impression, with him.  
So, that’s all. That’s what I gathered contributed to him killing himself. I’m as perplexed as anyone else, but at least I guess I have some understanding, which is more than I can say for most of the people he knew.”

Grantaire stared at Feuilly in awe. He had kept all of that inside without telling anyone by respect for Bahorel, who apparently did not want to worry anyone with his personal issues.

“So... you were still surprised when he died?”

“Well, I never assume that someone is going to die, so yes. However, I did not... Let’s say I was not in shock.”

“He did not talk to you about it,” Grantaire stated.

“Oh, he did. But like a year ago. In fact, I clearly remember he told me he did not want to grow old. Then he told me that he was sorry if he was absent for a big chunk of my life, but that he loved me. I just... perhaps I should have insisted more.”

“I’m sure you did what you could,” Grantaire said. He patted Feuilly’s knee.

“Don’t worry. I don’t blame myself, he wouldn’t agree with that. And you better not be blaming yourself either.”

“No. I won’t. I’m really glad I talked to you, though. It’s true what they say. You feel better afterwards, if only slightly. In my case it doesn’t necessarily last but... anyway. Thank you.”

“Hey, no problem. I’m glad I talked to you too. But now I want to change the subject; this is getting heavy on my mind. Let’s go to the bar. I won’t let you drink much, but I will kick your ass at pool.”

“In your dreams!”

  
***

  
Grantaire started going to meetings more regularly after that. He also saw Feuilly more often, and was more sociable to his friends. Joly and Bossuet were delighted. Jehan bought Grantaire Chinese food again as a sign of forgiveness. All Grantaire could think about, now that he had exorcised some of his repressed thoughts, was that he had been kissed by Enjolras. He started to tease the blonde about it, subtly, which made him smile or groan equally.

By the end of the week, Grantaire asked Feuilly if he could arranged for him to see Bahorel’s urn at his parents’ place. Feuilly agreed.

Bahorel’s family were all very charming and affectionate. They all wanted to hug Grantaire and Mrs Bahorel even prepared him a meal. Brigitte, who had started talking again, kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for coming. Those seemed like good people who did not deserve that kind of tragedy in their lives. They were the kind to put the well-being of others before their own. Grantaire liked them very much.

Bahorel’s urn looked like a vase back from Antiquity. It had two handles, was brown and orange, and featured a hairy, muscular guy with a sword and a smirk that was none other than Bahorel. The whole thing looked mighty. A mighty souvenir about exactly what kind of person had just died. It was fitting. The Bahorels must have spent a lot of money to find the right urn. Grantaire usually did not get why people would buy expensive stuff for the dead, but in this case he was content.

“We always thought of him as a modern warrior,” Brigitte said. She had a grave voice that barely fitted her soft features and small silhouette. She was smiling at the urn.

“You’re the one who was with him,” Grantaire said. It was offensively inappropriate, but she nodded without reacting. “Did he have any last words?”

She bursted into laughter. “Yes. I recall clearly. I don't think he knew I would hear. People have been accusing him of being heartless for firing while I was there, but I think he genuinely thought I was gone. Anyway, I'm glad he had someone a few instants about his death. I'm glad that I was there to hear what he had to say, so that I could cherish his last thoughts. Want to know them?”

Grantaire acquiesced.

“Long lived the king.”


	6. Snaps! (Éponine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this story, Éponine, Gavroche and Azelma try to take interesting pictures with Gavroche's shiny new camera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Morbid imagery. As in false suicidal ideation and illnesses.  
> -Mushy family feels.  
> -A 'Punctum' is a peculiar detail in a photograph that makes us like it/get fascinated with it. It attracts our eye, sometimes without us knowing why.

**Snaps!**

  
_We’re the low art Gloominati_  
 _And we aim to depress,_  
 _The scabaret sacrilegends_  
 _This is the Golden Age of grotesque!_  
~The Golden Age of Grotesque -Marilyn Manson

 

  
“The picture is as such: Gavroche is the dead son of a devastated Azelma, a woman from the XIX century who has lost everything after getting fired from her job because she had a child out of wedlock. After a harsh Winter, Gavroche had contracted tuberculosis and, being malnourished and badly clothed, there was no chance he could have survived that. Lying in his mother’s arms, he is the perfect image of a cadaveric cherub. He is white as snow, and he sports a rather peaceful expression, which is beginning to disturb Azelma because—”

“I’m really disturbed, though,” Azelma uttered. “Look, he really is limp and he doesn’t even look awake!”

Éponine sighed and left the camera on the wooden exterior table and approached her siblings. Gavroche was lying in the snow, unmoving, and Azelma was kneeled next to him. She was shivering due to her thin layers of clothes, but Gavroche was perfectly still. With the white and grey make up and the fake blood at the corner of his lips, it was eery. Éponine knelt down and tapped him on the cheek.

“Hey, Gavroche. Marcel. Hey! Wake up. We’re not done here.” He did not react. Frowning, Éponine tapped him a bit harder. “Don’t make me slap you for real!”

Still nothing.

Éponine was not a fool. She knew that her brother was well and alive. He could not have been that cold because she had made him wear a sweatshirt under his costume, which Azelma has forgotten to do. He had been perfectly fine and healthy a minute ago. He was trying to play a trick, obviously, or trying to be annoying as always. For some reason, Azelma seemed to buy it. She looked worried and her forehead was creased. She had questions in her eyes.

“He is a bit cold and his respiration is shallow,” Éponine declared. “This is weird.”

“What do you mean, his respiration is shallow? Is he alright? Is it the cold?” Azelma asked. She was really buying it.

“Yeah, probably. Look, it’s creepy. It looks like he’s trying to talk!”

The boy’s lips were moving slowly without a sound passing them. Azelma opened her mouth, but said nothing. She approached her head from her brother’s in an attempt to hear what he was saying and, promptly, Gavroche sprung his head up and licked her on the cheek. She shrilled.

“Contaminated! Contaminated!” Gavroche cried out happily. Éponine chuckled. Azelma rubbed her cheek with her glove furiously.

“I can’t believe you fell for it,” Éponine said. “Why would you think it was anything but a bad joke?”

“He looked really out of it!” Azelma growled. She glared at Gavroche who stuck his tongue at her. He raised his hand and Éponine high-fived him. “You two are such pests! Why do we have to take such morbid pictures, anyway?”

“Because it’s more fun that way? Everyone else is taking pictures of smiling relatives or cute animals. Let’s be different and a bit more original.”

Gavroche nodded. “Yeah, though we should have picked my idea. Did you know that they used to photograph the death in that time? There must be like, hundreds of pictures of poor schmucks that died of diseases.”

Éponine rolled her eyes. “Yes, but not as the mother hugged her dead child, reminiscing about her piece of shit life.”

“I still think that my idea was better.”

“Gavroche, we can take as much pictures as we want and delete the boring later. It’s a digital. Now, behave. We’re frozen here. I have to admit though, you were really in character, you two. Good job!”

It was Azelma’s turn to roll her eyes, but Gavroche grinned and lied back. In no time, he looked still and stiff again, like a dead person. Azelma looked a bit more morose than tearful, but that would have to do.

  
*******   


  
For Gavroche’s thirteenth’s birthday, and to celebrate the fact that she would not be living at home anymore now that she had a new steady job, Éponine had bought an expensive black digital camera. It had costed her a quarter of her economies, but Gavroche had been ecstatic. He had even promised to share with Azelma, who had looked interested as well.

In their free time, the three siblings had formed a small project: Azelma had bought a small photo album which they intended to fill with pictures of them, as a reminder that they were a family. They had started with standard photographs: Gavroche smiling as he ate a big piece of cake; Azelma with her old glasses and her woolen hat, looking shy; Éponine bulging her eyes and baring her teeth at the camera like a savage beast; the younger Thénardiers sticking their fingers in their mouths; and even the family friend Montparnasse, in a brand new red suit and with a cane and a top hat. This was this last shot that gave them the idea. Montparnasse had looked as though he was coming straight out of another era. He also looked grave, unsmiling, like some kind of Jack the Ripper. Gavroche had thus proposed to explore new themes and to create original scenarios instead of just mindlessly taking the habitual photograph. Éponine had thought this was a great idea. She was all for helping her brother to develop his blooming creativity. Azelma had agreed to it too, but she didn’t think that her brother and sister would choose morbid themes like illnesses in the XIX century.

After taking a few takes, Éponine decided that it was enough and that they should go inside for the rest. Gavroche grumbled, but acquiesced and Azelma looked relieved. It was a cold March and none of the girls could afford to get sick because they counted on their respective job to get by. Azelma might still live with their parents, she was coquette and everything she wanted that wasn’t food or the strict necessity, she had to buy herself. As for Gavroche, he seemed content the way he lived, even though he had no love for Mr and Mrs Thénardier. Poverty did not particularly affect his mood.

“So, are we going to use my idea?” Gavroche inquired, once inside. Mr Thénardier was wherever he went each day to make money under the table, and Mrs Thénardier was gone at the grocery store with the kids.

“Your idea, it’s... I mean, tuberculosis is one thing, suicide is another,” Azelma said. “What if someone walks in and decide that you really are suicidal? They’ll make you go see a therapist.”

“Who cares?” Gavroche said, unperturbed. “I’ll go talk to someone an hour a week, big deal.”

“It’s not even your idea,” quipped Éponine. “You stole it in that movie with the girl werewolves.”

“Maybe, but it was my idea to steal it.”

During Christmas, the Thénardier siblings watched horror movies instead of seasonal ones. This year theme was werewolves —Éponine had picked it— and they had watched _Ginger Snaps_ , _An American Werewolf in London, Howl, Trick R’ Treat_ and even the first season of _Teen Wolf_ for fun. They had all particularly liked the first two. While Éponine and Azelma had praised the transformation scenes, Gavroche had fawned over the fake suicide pictures in _Ginger Snaps_ and the talking dead body in _An American Werewolf_. Apparently, it had stuck with him enough to remember it in March and to beg his sisters to play with the idea.

“I don’t really mind. We could put Azelma in a bath and put red colouration so it looks as though she cut her veins,” Éponine proposed. Azelma shook her head.

“I don’t want to be the model for the suicide ones,” she said. “I’ll take the pictures, but I maintain that it’s way more morbid than illnesses.”

“That’s why it’s interesting!” Gavroche said. “We’ll put Éponine in the bath. I’ll be sitting next to the bath, dead with a bottle of pills scattered next to me. Double suicide. Like... star-crossed lovers, or something. Romeo and Juliet shit.”

Éponine barked a laugh and Azelma giggled. Gavroche clicked his tongue.

“I know what you are thinking, and I’ll have you know that I can look older if I try.”

“Yeah. We’ll put some adorable fake mustache on you,” Azelma teased. Gavroche smiled, good-natured.

“I could try to grow one.”

“Oh, please don’t. You’ll look so ridiculous I would die choking on my laughter,” Éponine said. “Now, let’s try your idea, but without the lovers thing...”

  
*******   


  
“The picture goes as this,” Azelma said, her voice solemn, but low and difficult to catch. “Éponine is a young mother dealing with suicidal ideation. One day, as she was shaving her legs in the bath, she cut herself. When she saw the blood, she did not stop cutting, until she slowly died of blood loss. Little Gavroche, coming back from school, see his mother dead and decide to join her by swallowing an entire bottle of pills.”

Éponine was naked in their tiny bath, white powder dusted over her face. They put fake blood on her legs and wrists, and they coloured the warm water with red food colouring. The water embraces her whole body to her neck, and her thin long brown hair float gently in it. Her arms were limp on the side of the bath. It’s easy to just relax and wait for the flash. Gavroche, sat next to the bath, his head lolling and an empty bottle of pills at his feet, was perfectly in character. Éponine closed her eyes.

Azelma took three pictures. That is all the time they had before Mrs Thénardier, who had came back unbeknown to her children, bursted into the room. She let out a powerful scream, making Gavroche and Éponine startle in fear, and she immediately started to yell at them. She screams about how it’s not only unhealthy to take such pictures, but that it’s immoral as well. She shrieked that Gavroche is too young to have such a depraved mind, that Éponine will have to stop trying to corrupt her siblings, and that staying around naked while her brother is there is unacceptable.

Éponine stopped listening after the first sentence.

  
*******   


  
They didn’t give up the project, but they stayed away from the topic of suicide to please their mother. Each time Mrs Thénardier looked at her eldest daughter, she took a nonplussed, irritated expression. She loved her daughters the best, and they used to get along better, but Mrs Thénardier had started to be disappointed in Éponine when she was fourteen. Éponine was a “debauched, depraved bad influence”, according to her mother. She still lent her old car to Éponine when she needed it.

The next set of pictures they took was based on the theme of the road. Éponine borrowed one of Montparnasse’s leather coats —after much fuss on his part— and they all went for a small trip to the country roads on the side of the city. She found a place where there was no traffic with a nice field as a landscape, and parked the car there. She let it run as, fortunately, the old thing still had a working heating system. Gavroche went outside and took a few pictures of his sister and Montparnasse while Azelma lied still on the back seat. They looked like a couple of Greasers running away from home. Montparnasse, especially, was a photogenic man, what with his feminine traits, his thick dark hair and his red lips. He always wore a moue or a frown because he thought them fashionable. Éponine, with her big eyes and her crazed smile, looked wild.

They took some more pictures out of the car, of Éponine lying on the hood, or Montparnasse with his arms crossed leaning on the driver’s door, or the both of them standing close, their back to the snowy road. Since the car was black, the effect was good even if it was a rusty, dated vehicle.

“It would be better with an antique car, something from the 70s,” Montparnasse said. “Anyway, what is your point with all of this?”

“What are you complaining about? You were bored and you love posing. It’s not even that cold, today. This is a perfect afternoon activity for handsome dandy you,” Éponine retorted. Montparnasse smirked.

“Actually, posing is a charitable act for you mere mortals who want to immortalize my beauty. I’m totally indifferent to photographs and paintings of myself.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” singsonged Éponine and Gavroche. They exchanged a knowing smile. Montparnasse rolled his eyes and took the driver’s seat.

“At least, let me drive,” he said. Éponine nodded and, instead of going to the passenger’s side, she passed over Montparnasse’s legs, groaning playfully when he squeezed her ass. From her place on the backseat, Azelma leant forward and swat at the man.

“That is no way to treat a girl!” she said. Montparnasse turned around and stared at her. She retreated, visibly crept out. Gavroche installed himself next to her and glared at Montparnasse.

“Stop trying to be scary. You look positively ridiculous.”

“And you positively look like a snotty-nosed kid.”

They spent the rest of the ride arguing and jibing at each other. Only Azelma remained silent.

  
*******   


  
“I do not like Kevin that much. I do not trust him,” Azelma said one day as they were photographing her. They were at the McDonald where she worked and she was in her blue uniform and blue cap, her hair tied in a tight ponytail. Éponine took three pictures of her while she was serving other clients. Gavroche was eating french fries at a table nearby, watching them with questioning eyes.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Éponine retorted. “He may be a good-for-nothing rascal, but if he has one quality, it’s his loyalty to our family.”

“You think so? He’s never been that nice to us.”

“So? People who’ve been nice are not around anymore, are they? He can be annoying and snobbish, but he’s a good friend,” Éponine said.

If she was to be honest, Montparnasse was a dangerous person. All of the rumours she’d heard about him were not reassuring, and she once saw him beat a guy to a pulp with his friend Claquesou, apparently because he had made an offensive remark about their appearance out loud. Éponine did not know half of what he did with her father and his friends, and she did not particularly care to know. One thing she was sure of was that Montparnasse would not hurt any Thénardier. He was a tough guy, but he cared about his friends, perhaps not enough to be a good influence, but enough to see to their safety.

Azelma had never been convinced of that fact and Gavroche had no opinion about that. On the other hand, Azelma was a bit of a scaredy-cat and Gavroche functioned on pure instinct: he did not care if something was dangerous as long as it was exciting and/or interesting. Éponine was the down to earth sibling, so she trusted her own judgment more than her younger brother and sister. Yet, when Azelma was uncomfortable, she could not help but feel compassionate and try to compromise. So when her sister pulled a face as she gave a middle-aged man his big-mac, Éponine stopped taking picture and told her with a softer tone:

  
“Okay. We won’t invite Montparnasse for further photo sets. At least, not when it’s only the three of us. Fine?”

Azelma smiled shyly. “Thanks,” she said.

“No problem. What do you say, Gavroche?”

Gavroche smiled, shrugged and turned back to his fries.

 

*******

  
They also took pictures by themselves. One Friday night, when Éponine visited after her shift, she found out that Gavroche had used the camera to take a bunch of selfies. All the pictures were of him dressed in Azelma’s clothes and sporting a decent makeup. The clothes were a bit too big, but otherwise they suited him. His long hair had been tied into two pigtails and, despite smiling like a clown, as if laughing at whoever was looking at him, he looked absolutely adorable. And happy. He often looked happy and carefree, but it was refreshing to see him like this anyway. Gavroche in all his glorious unashamedness. Nonetheless, Éponine could only think about what harm this would cause if he ever showed the wrong people, which he would totally do because he was too proud.

“Don’t let mom or dad see those,” she cautioned her brother. He gave her a pointed look.

“Or what? Another threat of having to see a therapist?”

“They might as well throw you on the street for that,” she said.

“Oh, no. They need me around the house. They’ll just be very unhappy and ashamed like the bigoted jerks they are. Don’t look at me like that: you know they are.”

“You are right,” Éponine conceded, “but can I ask why you did it? Do you have something to tell me? Like, are you gay, or trans, or whatever?”

Gavroche shook his head. “No, none of that, I just like the aesthetic of being feminine. Montparnasse does it and it suits him, so I thought I would try. Why, would you have a problem with it if I was gay?”

“You do know that Montparnasse is not straight, right? Why would I have a problem with you? I was only curious.”

“Sometimes, people are less accepting when it comes to their close family,” Gavroche retorted. “One guy I know, his parents were friends with a male dancer, but when their son told them he wanted to dance too, they rejected his choice and forbid him to take classes. He has to wait until he can pay them for himself, when his parents won’t be able to keep him from doing it. See? People are weird.”

“We’re just as weird,” Éponine said. “We took a picture of us dying and I let you see me naked. Maybe mom has reasons to be worried.”

“You think she’s really worried? I think she whined because that kind of things get in the way of her ideal of a nice, normal family.”

“Mom doesn’t want to be normal, she wants to be rich.”

“Yeah, so we can afford to be abnormal, I bet.”

Éponine snorted. It was not a bad hypothesis. Back when they had money, Mrs Thénardier excused all of the eccentric behaviours her kids had. She even took their side when they did bad things and constantly sneered at other children, thinking her own vastly superior. Unfortunately, her love was not as unconditional as it seemed. After they went bankrupt, she tarted snapping at them more and more often. She still mostly doted on Azelma, who was the most obedient of the bunch, but overall she neglected her family.

  
*******   


  
Azelma took pictures of herself naked in the bathroom. She showed them to Éponine, but asked her to delete them all, safe for the last one, on which only her face was visible. On her selfies, Azelma had let loose her hair and was not wearing her glasses. On one pic, she was kneeling on the floor, cupping her breasts. On another, there was a close-up of her bushy vagina. On a third, a close-up of one of her nipple. She seemed to have grown more confident as the pictures went and became a bit more sensual. In one in particular, Azelma was resplendent. She was sitting on the floor, her legs crossed and was staring right at the camera, a self-assured naughty smile stretching her lips. It looked like an invitation. Éponine did not delete that one despite her sister begging her too.

“It’s too sexual! It’s too risque!” Azelma said. “I look like a wannabe in that picture. I never even had sex, I don’t know what came over me.”

“Azelma, those are personal pictures. We’re not showing them to anyone. I’m keeping the photo album at my place. You should keep it. You look beautiful. It’s rare to see you this confident looking.”

“I want to keep it,” Azelma admitted, “But I’m too afraid someone is going to see. The guy at the Walmart photo-centre is going to see!”

“Who cares? He’s just a dude. You don’t even know if it’s going to be a dude. They do their job and that’s all. It’s none of their business.”

“What if someone I know work there? What if I get bullied over it?”

The Thénardiers children always had had a hard time making friends with other people. They were not exactly introverts, aside from Azelma, but they were all rough edges and bad reputations. They had the knack to get into trouble. They were brusque, impetuous, insolent and sometimes aggressively themselves. People were apparently not naturally attracted to that kind of personality. For that reason, Éponine, Azelma and Gavroche had all been bullied before, and the younger ones would probably follow into the cycle once they went to school.

Ever the good older sister, Éponine deleted the photo. It hurt her to do so, but Azelma thanked her and hugged her.

“Don’t be ashamed of taking these, though. They were cool. You looked like a woman ready to take on life!”

Azelma laughed and thanked her again.

  
*******   


  
Since her siblings had decided to make personal use of the camera, Éponine decided to follow into their steps. She borrowed Gavroche’s camera and, coming back from work, she got out all of her prettiest clothes from her wardrobe: black skinny jeans with a green wife-beater, a blue silky sun dress that she only wore once, a red skirt and a black leather jacket... everything that would look nice, in her opinion, as a souvenir of herself. Afterwards, she sat herself on her small bed in her tiny bedroom, the camera in front of her. She thought about how she would pose.

She stared at the objective of the thing for about half an hour before concluding that she did not know what the hell she was doing. Everything seemed too banal for a memento. Gavroche and Azelma had both done something special, out of the ordinary when they had been alone with the camera. They had caught something, a punctum, as it was called, that immediately attracted the eyes and made one feel warm inside. Azelma had deleted hers, but she had been happy to show Éponine how good she looked on that picture. Éponine did not want to look ordinary next to her siblings. The clothes were pretty, but they were still everyday clothes.

Sighing, Éponine took her clothes and threw them back in her closet, irritated. She looked for something else, but nothing was unique. Nothing was satisfying enough. She could have posed naked, like Azelma did, but it would not have been special. Éponine was not ashamed of her body, nor of her sexuality. She was not shy. She did not have any blooming to do on that part.

Meanwhile, the camera was still staring at her empty spot on the bed, taunting her. She nearly threw it against the wall before remembering how much it costed and how it didn’t belong to her.

  
*******   


  
Instead of taking pictures of herself, Éponine took pictures of Claquesou and Montparnasse. She asked Azelma beforehand, so her sister wouldn’t get upset, but although the girl was worried, she did not fuss too much. She just did not like being in presence of Montparnasse.

Montparnasse and Claquesou went for the porn road. Claquesou was not even queer, but he did a lot of things out of sheer curiosity and he let Montparnasse talk him into just about anything. It was thus not surprising that her friend told her he would be riding the bigger man’s dick and that he wanted doubles of the pictures. He did not ask money. It was pure vanity on his part.

Montparnasse looked like what Éponine would imagine to be an incubus. As he rode Claquesou, he stared right ahead at the camera, jaw set and eyes half-open. His long black hair were a dark halo around his head. He was a little red in the face, and his prick seemed painful as it was erected, but untouched, yet he was completely in control. Claquesou was groaning an moaning under him. Éponine could only concentrate on Montparnasse’s heated glare and the disgusting smacking sounds.

It was the first time she saw two people going at it in front of her, and it was making her sweat and wet. She only took a few pictures and excused herself. Montparnasse nodded at her before plunging forward to bite at his friend’s lips.

Back home, Éponine took pictures of herself masturbating furiously with the intention of giving them to Montparnasse. When he saw them a few days later, Montparnasse grinned and purred that she could always have the real thing. He also said that she should have joined him and Claquesou. She swatted him and kissed him on the lips.

  
*******   


  
March passed, scrubbing its dirty feet on the first days of Spring, without Éponine getting her own punctum. She did not even notice that it was April’s Fool because she had been absorbed by work and a persisting cold. When she got to her parents home, her father was absent, as per usual, and her mother was gone at her bingo night. Azelma was in charge of watching over the two kids, though she was nowhere to be seen, and Gavroche was probably in his room doing his homework.

Éponine sniffed and said hello to her youngest siblings. Matthieu and Christophe were busy with a colouring book and their crayons. They were not particularly talented yet, but the thought of drawing and colouring always calmed them down and could keep them concentrated for hours. They would love kindergarten.

The twins smiled at Éponine and showed their work proudly. It was Snoopy and Woodstock sleeping on the doghouse, except that Snoopy was coloured in pink and green, and Woodstock was a bright red. The house was orange and blue, and the sky was purple. Éponine chuckled. She had always approved of re-imagining reproductions instead of pale, boring copies.

“That’s some good art, there,” she said. “Where are Gav and Alma?”

“Gav is doing school stuff,” Matthieu answered solemnly. Christophe nodded. “He said he needed your ‘ass sist hence’. I dunno what that mean.”

“That means he’s crap at maths,” Éponine said.

She knocked at her brother’s room. When she got no response, she opened and entered. There was no one in there. Gavroche’s school books were not even opened at his small desk. The bunk beds in which her three brothers slept were empty. Éponine stared, perplexed.

“Gavroche?” she said stupidly. “Marcel?”

When she turned around, she only had the time to blink before Azelma crushed a cream pie on her face. She shrieked, surprised, and it was met with the excited laughter of her four siblings. She thought about getting angry, but she could only burst into laugh as well as she remembered the date. She had been tricked so easily. She heard a flash and she knew that Gavroche was taking pictures.

“Aw, come on Gav,” she hiccuped between bouts of laughter. She picked at the cream dripping from her nose and threw it at her brother. He dodged playfully and took another shot. He looked at the picture on the small screen and whistled.

“Actually, you look fine sis. I mean, despite the clown face.”

Éponine strutted to him to get a look. She did look good. She had whipped cream everywhere on her cheeks, brows and even on her eyelashes, her nose was red from blowing it, her hair was unkempt under her beret and she had her big ugly brown coat on, but the look of utter surprised delight made her look pretty. She had a genuine smile instead of a mocking smirk or a forced smile, and her eyes seemed to sparkle. That was a good photo.

“Nice,” she said. “Keep that one. But don’t hope to blackmail me with it, because it won’t work.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I want to see, I want to see!” squeaked Christophe. Gavroche showed him the screen. “I want a clown picture too!”

Éponine ended up spreading whipped cream on all of her sibling’s face: on Christophe and Matthieu’s noses, on Gavroche’s chin and on Azelma’s forehead. Azelma then put the time setter on the camera, put the thing on the table and motioned to her siblings. They all pressed the ones against the others, Matthieu in Azelma’s arms and Christophe in Éponine’s. They had a few seconds, and then there was the flash.

They all pounced forward excitedly to go see the picture.

It was really neat. Everyone had a big, happy smile and a playful glint in their eyes. They all seemed close, ready to protect one another if they had to. For once, they looked like a real family, not plagued by any worry or the demanding, angry gaze of their tough parents. It was an ordinary picture, one similar to thousands of others, Éponine was ready to bet, but all in all, it was her favourite. She did not know if there would be many others like this one, at least in her family. She hoped so.


	7. Worry-laced Day with Marius & Cosette! (Marius)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this one, Marius takes Cosette at the attraction park, and they take care of each other when inconveniences occur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Talk about fear of heights and fear of storms.  
> -Light, mushy stuff. Awkwardness. Marius/Cosette

**Worry-laced Day with Marius and Cosette**

  
_And when I’m sad, you’re a clown._  
 _And if I get scared, you’re always around._  
~I Got You Babe -Sonny  & Cher

 

  
Marius was surprised when Cosette declared that she had never been in an attraction park before and that she wanted him to take her to La Ronde. Marius himself had never dared to go. His grandfather had deemed the place a waste of time and had forbidden him to approach the place, even if it was only to look at the many gigantic attractions and rollercoasters. Of course, Marius wasn’t under the guild of his Mr Gillenormand anymore and he could do whatever he wanted to. He was only worried to be a poor guide for his girlfriend.

“We’ll discover what it’s like together, then! Oh, come on Marius! You can’t tell me that you are not curious?”

He was not, but he certainly couldn’t say no to Cosette. With a shaky smile, he promised her that he would take her the next weekend. Cosette kissed him on the mouth and he told himself that it was worth it.

  
*******   


  
On Saturday morning, Marius went to Valjean’s house. The old man was reading the newspaper while drinking some tea. He asked Marius if he wanted some, since Cosette would take some time to get ready. Marius joined him at the table. Mr Valjean was smiling, but he wasn’t saying anything and he seemed to find the silence comfortable. Coming from a house of direct demands and expectations, Marius was always a little taken aback by the man’s mild temper. Sometimes, the soft, pleasant features hid a severe gaze, but never had Valjean been impolite or mean to Marius.

A few minutes passed before Cosette dragged herself downstairs. Her brown hair was tangled and she had an impressive tired moue pulling her mouth downward. Marius noted that she was not a morning person. She still waved at him and kissed her father on the cheek. Then she addressed a frame hanging on the wall in which there was an old photograph of a puny woman.

“Good morning, mom,” Cosette said simply. She walked to the pantry, her steps heavy, and grabbed a box of cereals. She mechanically searched for a bowl, a spoon and the milk. Marius happily got absorbed by her morning routine. Even with bags under her eyes and unkempt hair, she was beautiful.

  
*******   


Marius did not have a car, and neither did the Valjeans, so they took the subway. It was never a good experience in Marius’ opinion. People looked either sullen or cross, staring absently at the floor and avoiding human contact. The train was bland looking, stank, and was like a garbage disposal, what with the discarded objects and newspapers. The ride was always too long, it was too hot because Marius had brought a thin jacket, he could not talk much because of the infernal noises, and he was pushed around and jostled by impatient men and women every few stations. There was a silver lining nonetheless: Cosette was pressed against him the whole time.

  
*******   


La Ronde, just like any Six Flags, was fairly expansive and Marius did not regret getting his part-time job. Cosette had wanted to pay for herself, but Marius insisted that he could pay. They finally negotiated that Cosette would take care of the next date instead, so Marius gave a hundred and a half to the amused cashier. The price was worth it, because Cosette was jumping up and down excitedly next to him, her hand in his, a big grin digging cute little dimples in her cheeks. Marius smiled back and let her pull him around.

The first hour at the park went well: Cosette wanted to make the suspense last when it came to rides, so she decided to go to the games and arcades. She was surprisingly good at this kind of activity. In one spot in particular, she managed to throw three rings around the most faraway pin and won a huge plushy gorilla. It was more cumbersome than anything, so they gave it to the very grateful little girl that had been eying it for five minutes next to them. Her mother thanked Cosette warmly.

Cosette won other prizes, but she only kept a small keychain that she gave to Marius. It was a nice little lark. He immediately attached it to his other key chain and put it back in the pocket of his jacket that he zipped carefully. The bird was most likely going to become some sort of symbol, from now on.

  
*******   


The first rollercoaster was bad. Despite all the security belts and protections, Marius did not feel too safe. He clung desperately at the handles and closed his eyes.

“Marius, I’ve been told that it’s worse if you close your eyes!” Cosette exclaimed.

He had no time to reply, because the train sprung forward and whatever he had to say got stuck in his throat. He could not scream as he felt the vehicle speeding and then looping. When the train went up, and up and then stopped and started going backward, Marius thought he was going to throw up. Fortunately, he did not. The ride only lasted a couple of minutes, but it felt like hours. Marius got out of the thing all sweaty and shaky. Cosette looked worried.

“Are you okay, Marius? You... you look a little green.”

Marius smiled and nodded, but he sat on the first free bench he saw, fanning himself with his hands. Cosette sat next to him and took his hand.

“Perhaps we should have started with something a little less extreme.”

“But did you have fun?” Marius asked, his voice a little strained.

“I thought it was fantastic,” Cosette admitted.

“Then, I’m fine.”

“Marius, no—”

“It’s okay! I swear. I just... need to recover from the sensation. What do you want to do next?”

Cosette stuck her tongue out —she tended to do that when she was thinking— and opted for bumper cars. Marius felt a bit guilty because he knew that she chose something milder on purpose. Yet, when they embarked in the cars and started charging into random strangers, he felt better and laughed to himself. Cosette bumped into him at least three time, giggling and waving at him.

  
*******   


They did a few other mild rides, like the Splash —that one was refreshing, but they came out completely wet and shivering despite the hot weather— and the Toboggan Nordique. Those were exciting, without being too scary. Marius realized that he was fine with rides that went fast, as long as they were not looping, so they tried the few rollercoasters that were like that, and the spinning attractions, and he managed to have fun. They even did a few rides a couple of times. Cosette looked relieved.

The brunette seemed completely fearless. She could try anything, and she would just laugh in delight the whole time. She even pointed at something called the Sling Shot —a ball in which you sat that propelled you into the air— and said that she could probably be convinced to try it. Marius thought the thing looked like it was coming right out of the nightmare of a psychotic inventor. It made Cosette chuckled.

  
*******   


Waiting for going into a ride took times, so they did not see the time pass before Cosette’s stomach started to emit funny grumbling sounds. Embarrassed, the brunette threw an apologetic glance at Marius. He shrugged and took her hand, looking for a restaurant. They ate burgers at a place called Valentine. Only then did they notice that the sky was greying. Cosette looked immediately disappointed.

“I guess we should go home, then,” she said.

“What, why?” Marius asked, surprised.

“Well, it’s going to rain. The sky is dark. Do you think there’s going to be a storm?”

“There are raincoats we can buy at some place near The Splash,” he proposed. “As long as they don’t close the park, I don’t see why it has to ruin the day? We don’t even know if it’s going to drizzle or pour, so...”

Cosette stared at the sky, biting her lips. She nodded, although reluctantly.

  
*******   


They opted to go on the Ferris Wheel next. It turned out to be a terrible idea.

Marius thought that the thing looked mild, pleasant and romantic. It was one of the few attractions in which he could take the time to talk to Cosette without having to yelp or scream, and without her laughing hysterically. He didn’t count on the thing having technical problems and them getting stuck near the top. The cages didn’t even have glasses. They only had a few bars to keep people from plunging to their death. They had an excellent view on part of the park and the water surrounding it, and Marius wanted to barf his guts out.

“Are you kidding me?” Cosette said when she saw him paling, “You are afraid of heights? But you were fine in the other rides!”

“The other rides were faster. We are stuck, _unmoving_ , at the top of a wheel!”

“Don’t be snippy with me!”

“You started it!” Marius protested. Cosette crossed her arms and stuck her tongue at him. He smiled, but his grip on one of the bar didn’t loosen.

  
*******   


The people in the Ferris Wheel were given the message that it would not take more than twenty minutes to get them down. The situation worsened when it started to rain. When the faint sound of thunder occurred, Cosette startled very hard which in turn made Marius jump. He realized he was standing in the small gondola and his feet betrayed him. Cosette caught him and made him sit back in place. Her grip was a little too strong, a little too hard. She was scared too.

“Are _you_ afraid of heights, Cosette?” Marius asked. “It-it’s okay if you are. You don’t have to be the strong one.”

“I’m not afraid of heights, Marius,” Cosette murmured, but she did not let go of his shirt.

  
*******   


It was raining harder and harder. The sound of each drop resonated on the metal roof of their cage and it sounded like someone was banging desperately to enter. At least they had a roof. It did not seem to comfort Cosette. She was still clinging to Marius, her eyes wide open and wild, as she scrutinized the sky, watching out for any lightning.

Marius had concluded that his girlfriend had a phobia. Astraphobia; the fear of thunderstorms. He regretted bitterly to have convinced her to stay. They should have gone home. He had been cheap and greedy, wanting to make the best of the day and not thinking about Cosette’s wishes. She must have thought him an idiot for not guessing, when she hesitated and looked at the sky worryingly, that something was up. Better yet, she must have thought him an idiot for not looking up the weather on television. Now, she was not doing too well, and Marius was sure that if he listened more closely, he would hear her poor distraught heart beating. As for himself, he was dealing rather badly with his own fear. He had one arm around Cosette, and the other gripping the bar to the point that his hand hurt. His eyes could only remained open for so long and he felt stiff and sickly.

“It’s going to be alright,” he still said in Cosette’s ear. “The bolts are far away.”

Cosette leaned against him, but said nothing.

  
*******   


After fifteen minutes, the storm was still going on. Gusts of wind had joined the party, making the cages of the Ferris Wheel shiver and whine. It was raining sideways and Marius and Cosette, whose clothes had the time to dry after their go in The Splash, found themselves getting wet again. They were too bothered by other things to really care, but Marius still put his jacket on Cosette’s shoulder. It took him a minute because Cosette did not want to let go of his shirt, and he had trouble letting go of the bar he was holding.

Marius, who had felt nauseous all this time, was trying to control his angry stomach. Cosette had bitten her bottom lip so hard that it was bleeding. People were quickly leaving the park and, despite the other people trapped in the ride and the technicians working on their problem, they felt helpless and lonely. They felt as though they only had each other to go through this nightmare.

  
*******   


Twenty-five minutes passed and finally, finally they heard someone say that they were going to slowly make people get out of the Ferris Wheel. It was not fast enough to their taste. They endure it anyway, having no choice, and ground their teeth as their cage moved slowly towards the ground, stopping every few seconds to let people come out.

When at last it was Marius and Cosette’s turn, they wanted to bolt out. Marius was too shaky and stiff to move rapidly. He got out of the cage very carefully and helped Cosette after him. He thanked the technicians and hurried towards the nearest restroom, pulling Cosette after him. He did not care that it was the men’s restroom, he did not want to leave her alone. Only, he had to puke. He pounced in the nearest stall and proceeded to vomit all of his stomach content.

He felt Cosette’s cold hands on the back of his neck. When he was done, he felt much better. Cosette, however, had started to cry silently. The thunder was not going away. It was even getting louder. Almost everything in the Six Flags was made out of metal. She did not feel safe. Marius wipe his mouth and took her in his arms. He did not know what else to do.

“I want to go home, Marius,” she uttered miserably.

“I’m taking you home,” Marius agreed.

  
*******   


The ride back home was spent in silence. Marius and Cosette huddled on a seat, still shivering not only from the rain, but from the exhaustion dawning on them. They did not look at each other, but they shared the same sad little bubble. Cosette was feeling better now that she was underground, where she couldn’t hear the storm, but she was still visibly nervous. When they got out of the train, she made Marius sat on a bench and wait. She was not ready to go outside just yet.

  
*******   


“I would like to apologize. We should have headed home the moment we saw the big dark clouds coming,” Marius said. He was passing his fingers in Cosette’s long brown hair, trying to communicate how sorry he was, and how compassionate he felt. Cosette shrugged and shook her head.

“No, I should have told you,” she said. “I was ashamed.”

“There’s no shame to be had,” Marius protested, his tone serious, but soft. “Did you see how chicken I was in a lot of the ride? In the wheel? We all have a fear of something.”

“Fear of heights is pretty common, though. In fact, I’m the one who should have asked you if you were okay with rollercoasters and rides before making you go there. I’m sorry, Marius. I was selfish.”

“I should have told you,” he repeated after her. “Besides, the first and last rides aside... I had a great day with you. I’m glad you were there with me. I felt a little less scared.”

“Liar,” Cosette said, amused. “You were pissing your pants.”

“I really was!” he laughed, then paused. “But seriously, I’m not judging you, Cosette. I’m the least adequate person to judge you. I’ve had thousands of fears.”

Cosette kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you Marius. It’s just that, deep down, I like to feel strong, so I think it’s pathetic that some damn storm can reduce me to tears.”

“You are the least pathetic person I’ve ever met,” Marius said. “It’s... You know, someone like my grandfather would have looked at us back up there and he would have thought us to be pretty pathetic. But we’re not pathetic. We are human beings who had to go through something unpleasant, and the fact we reacted badly doesn’t say anything important about our character. Who’s anyone to say anything? Did you know that Enjolras is afraid of spiders? Well, I can take spiders into my hands!”

Cosette giggled weakly. “Yes, and Éponine is really not fond of closed spaces.”

“Courfeyrac hates being alone. He doesn’t even go to pee alone.”

“And my father is scared of empty pantry, so he always buys too much food.”

“See? We’re not anymore silly than these brave, awesome people we know. We’re just different,” Marius said.

“Different can be good,” Cosette stated, as it was dawning on her.

“Different makes us interesting,” Marius agreed.

  
*******   


  
They remained at the subway station for an hour before getting out. The storm had faded, but it was still raining, so they hurried back home. Mr Valjean was absolutely appalled. He gave some clothes to Marius and made them change. The clothes were too big, and they made Marius looks like an idiot, but they were dry. Cosette apologized to her father for not bringing her phone. Valjean apologized to Cosette for not reminding her. Marius apologized again for not looking up the weather. It was an apology fest.

Then, Valjean thanked Marius for taking care of Cosette because he knew how she could get during storms. He looked proud and satisfied when Marius said solemnly that it was not a problem, that he did not laugh and that it was Cosette who took care of him, really. Cosette protested, rolled her eyes, but the colours were back on her face and she was smiling.

“I hope that the rest of the day went fine,” Valjean said.

Marius and Cosette exchanged a glance, shrugged and nodded.

They held hands for the rest of the evening.

  
*******   


“I will need my jacket back to get home,” Marius said.

“Just stay the night,” Cosette ordered. Marius thought that sounded inappropriate, but he did not protest because he was exhausted. He installed himself on the couch and Cosette joined him. They put a happy Disney movie to relax. They both fall asleep in each other’s arms, tranquillized by the other’s presence, their trust renewed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -La Ronde: http://www.laronde.com/larondeen/ride_list.asp


	8. Joly getting his Jollies (Joly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly has chickenpox.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Clumsy attempt at a talk about hypochondria (I'm sorry)  
> -Mushy feelings mixed with something bittersweet I guess  
> -Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta and mention of E/R

_She lives with a broken man_  
 _A cracked polystyrene man_  
 _Who just crumbles and burns_  
 _He used to do surgery_  
 _For girls in the eighties_  
 _But gravity always wins_  
 _And it wears him out_  
 _It wears him out_  
~Fake Plastic Trees -Radiohead

 

  
Getting chickenpox at twenty-three was either a relief or a curse. On the one hand, at last you were getting it and not having to worry about it ever again. On the other, you were to be sicker than an infant would be. Joly had been in bed for three days, stuck with nausea, a sore mouth and a persisting headache, and he did not know how much more he could endure. His body was itching everywhere, and so was his mind. It was possible to die from chickenpox if one was not careful, and it was more severe in adult men.

Musichetta and Bossuet had confiscated Joly’s mirror so he would stop anxiously counting the red dots and the blisters on his arms and torso. It took them twenty minutes to convince him that it was okay, that he did not need to worry about the rash. He only conceded to their demand because their presence was making him nervous. He was still contagious, and although both his lovers had had chickenpox when they were younger, who was to say that he couldn’t infect them? Make them develop shingles? He was worried and lamented the fact that he had no access to his books and a computer —the last time he was let with a computer while sick, he had a panic attack after reading too much about symptoms on the internet.

Usually, chickenpox resolved itself after a couple of weeks. That is what Joly tried to tell himself, but he kept thinking about complications and how he wanted to see a doctor. He had already seen one, but the woman had told him that all seemed fine and only prescribed him some antiviral. He had trouble believing that it was all he needed. He believed his health to be fragile and would have liked a vaccine or more antibiotics. It would have reassured him. Unfortunately, the vaccine was to come only after he had started recovering.

Joly banned aspirin from the apartment, afraid to take some by accident. He made Bossuet give the whole box to Grantaire, so he could recuperate it in a month or so. Reye syndrome was nothing to be joked about. Joly even hesitated to take other pills to reduce his fever. He read the ingredients carefully before taking even just one. He waited four hours before taking another, and even then he preferred not to. Instead, he spent his time clipping his nails short and took long warm baths. He clenched his hands into fists and tried hard to meditate not to scratch himself. He locked himself into his room the rest of the time so he could try to sleep instead of just painfully thinking and feeling.

Since he was little and his mother got breast cancer, Joly had always been hypochondriac. He actually did not know if there was a link between his mother’s decease and his condition, since she beat cancer and survived without even telling him that she had it (she only said that she was a little sick and needed treatment). He knew, deep inside, how pathetic he must have looked to everybody else, but he just couldn’t help it. When he thought he was seeing the symptoms of some disease inside himself, it was like they were really there. And when he was sick, well... the anguish exhausted him.

Usually, Joly was a jovial individual. He was positive in nature, loved the life he had, cherished his friends and had always something nice to say. He laughed at his hypochondria with people so they wouldn’t be upset, or think him oversensitive, or think that he was making everything about his health phobia, and he didn’t take jibs too personally. When he was really sick though, Joly’s mood soured and he became withdrawn. His mind buzzed with anxiety and he couldn’t find the strength to be amiable or gentle anymore. He was like a completely new person. And this made him ashamed.

Joly did not want his friends to get mad at him, or to feel like he did not trust their good opinions and their words of reassurance. He did not want Bossuet and Musichetta to think that they meant nothing to him when he locked himself in his room and refused to talk. Only, he was so scared of contagion, and of saying something off-putting, that he simply had to isolate himself. To be put into a quarantine of a sort. His lovers seemed to understand, but they pleaded with him that he had to tell them if anything was off. They gave him a bell that he could ring anytime he needed water. It was important to remain hydrated, so Joly rang at every half hour for a new glass. He went to pee a lot.

The days went by in a mix of crying at night and grumbling during the day. Joly almost did not occupy himself. He just slept and stared at the wall, being hyper conscious of his body. He wasn’t able to concentrate on the novels and the newspapers Musichetta had brought him. Sometimes, he answered inquiring texts from his friends, trying to be as exact as possible about what was going on without exaggerating. Combeferre kept texting him that chickenpox was very rarely fatal. Joly almost wanted to stop reading his texts. He knew that. He couldn’t help it that he felt he could, in some way, be part of the exceptions.

Sometimes, Joly wondered what it would be like if he ever lived to get old. Surely he would only be getting worse with time. In any case, he hadn’t improved since he was a child. Since the same old hypochondriac. It made him a little bitter, but he thought that at least, when he’d be older, he’d had a reason to be worried and other people would stop thinking of him as sensitive and annoying.

  
*******   


A week after his diagnostic, Grantaire came to say hi. At first, Joly only wanted to talk to him through the door of his room, but Grantaire kept making him repeat just to be an ass, so he had to invite him inside. He made his friend sit at a reasonable distance and ordered him to put a mask on, because chickenpox was airborne. Grantaire rolled his eyes and obeyed.

“I already had chickenpox when I was a child,” Grantaire said. “I had a vaccine and everything.”

“We still have to be careful,” Joly replied.

“It’s not like you had pneumonia, or something, Joly...”

“It has happened that pregnant women contracted pneumonia after getting infected with chickenpox, I’ll have you know.”

“Do I look like a pregnant woman to you?”

“I’d rather you wouldn’t insist. Please.”

“Alright.”

They talked about what was going on during the meetings Joly missed, and how Grantaire had successfully made Enjolras gob-smacked with an argument. Joly congratulated him, but Grantaire just shrugged it off as a fluke because Enjolras was tired. His friend’s infatuation with the blonde leader of their group never ceased to amaze him. He wonder if they would end up together one of these days. It was very possible, seeing as Enjolras was as passionate about disproving Grantaire as he was about social consciousness. He was as drawn to the man as Grantaire was to him, searching an opponent, but also someone who could gently challenge him. It was too bad that Grantaire couldn’t see that just yet.

Viateur Grantaire had been a good friend of Bossuet and Joly since the end of high school. He was always available for a drink, had shown them the best restaurants in town and was completely supportive of their relationship with Musichetta. He was a pessimist and a drunk, and sometimes he ate things off the floor, but he was a good man at heart. He was the first to text Joly and to ask if he needed anything. He was also in a good place to understand Joly’s phobia, since he was mentally ill himself. Grantaire took antidepressants. That means that he was not seeing reality as it really was either. He was convinced that he had little worth, and that everything lacked purpose. It wasn’t true, obviously, but how difficult it was for Grantaire to understand it. Probably as difficult as it was for Joly to get that he was not going to die, although he wouldn’t dare to make that comparison out loud. Hypochondria and depression were two different things.

“I have to ask,” Grantaire said suddenly, “what is it exactly that you fear about diseases?”

Joly blinked and stared at his friend. He did not know if he really wanted to talk about it. He did not know why Grantaire would want to talk about it. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Why, I fear complications, malicious symptoms, contagions and, of course, death. That’s what everyone fears about deceases, I think. To be weakened, and then not to be.”

Grantaire shrugged, but he was deep in thought.

“But you are not everyone. You fear to get the disease at anytime. Your mind is never really free of anxiety, isn’t it?”

“It is not.”

“I guess, what I’m asking is, is hypochondria a fear of dying, or something else? Are you, like, obsessed with the fear of not being? And that’s why you care about not being sick so much? Or is it the pain that scares you?”

Joly took a second to think about it. “Among other things, I think it is dying,” he said.

“So, why the hypochondria? Why not... a fear of getting in a car accident? Or a fear of dogs? Or a fear of homicidal maniacs?”

“Well, those are scary as well, but a disease is particularly insidious. It alters your body, your mind. It’s much slower than a car accident, and much more likely than getting murdered for no reason. The disease takes away your control and your dignity. It’s disgusting. Also, I guess that I can’t prevent someone from randomly killing me, but I always think that I can react to the disease, you know? Or react before there is a disease, anyway.”

“So death is not your primary worry. It’s just a result that you want to avoid.”

“What is it about you and death, today?” Joly groaned.

This conversation did not really make him feel nervous. In fact, he was used to explaining what hypochondria was, and in a way, it soothed him to talk about it. It reinforced the reality that he was mentally ill, that it was not his fault he was being so preoccupied. Nevertheless, he did not like Grantaire’s vagueness. He did not like not knowing one’s intent, even though he did not suspect anything malicious coming from his friend.

“It’s just sheer curiosity, really,” Grantaire said, raising his palms in a defensive move, “I realized that I wasn’t that scared of dying, but it hit me how this isn’t the case for everyone else. Take Jehan, for instance. He copes with the inevitability of death by writing obsessively about the topic and watching movies about death and mourning. I was wondering about you, that’s all.”

“Oh. Well. Hypochondria is not exactly coping. Coping would be becoming a doctor.”

“I wouldn’t call it coping, no, but it’s still a reaction, yes? Your reaction to your eventual demise is to be hyper-aware of what your body does.”

“I suppose so,” Joly said. “To be honest though, I think I’m a little more scared about being dead before dying. Of... of feeling dead.”

There was a pause. Joly felt tears prickling at his eyes. He had gotten upset, for some reason. Perhaps the conversation was going to much in dept and that was making him emotional, as opposed to the countless times he simply explained his condition in technical terms. Grantaire was observing him, ever the calm one. His gaze was gentle, empathetic. All things considered, Joly was glad that his friend insisted to come in. He hadn’t realized he was feeling lonely.

“Is that how you feel right now?”

“Not right now, but sometimes, in the night. I don’t literally think that I am dead, I’m not that delusional. It’s just a lasting impression. That I’m not quite living if I’m not perfectly healthy, and that even then... well being hypochondriac is already not healthy.”

“You feel like that every night?”

“No,” Joly answered quickly. “No, don’t worry. It’s mostly when I’m sick like this. I mean chickenpox. I got chickenpox. How ridiculous is that!”

“Joly...”

“How funny is it that I spend my time reading about cancer, cardiac and respiratory diseases and ITS, but it is chickenpox that I get. I feel so helpless.”

Grantaire stood up and approached the bed. Joly nearly screeched at him. He sat up brusquely and scurried as far from his friend as possible while staying to the bed. Grantaire ignored him and sat next to him. Joly glared at him.

“R, you know how this closeness makes me feel.”

“I know, but I thought maybe you needed a hug, or something.”

“I do not want a hug in this moment! Do not be absurd. I appreciate your empathy, but would you please go back to your chair?”

Grantaire hesitated, backed off a little, and then shook his head.

“It’s okay, Joly. I feel dead sometimes too. I don’t want to highjack your confidence with my stupid feelings, but I want you to know that I get it, what is it to not be quite living. And how alone you must feel. I’m right here, and I’m telling you, I’m not afraid of your chickenpox. I think we are hurting ourselves by pushing people away in these moments when we feel at our most horrible.”

Joly felt fat tears roll down his cheeks. Slowly, he touched Grantaire’s shirt with the tip of his finger. He saw Grantaire smile through his mask.

“Well, normally people who have chickenpox are contagious two days before the dots and the rash start showing. So I guess I’d have already contaminated you. So I guess, I guess...”

“It’s okay, Joly. I wouldn’t mind getting chickenpox again if it means staying in this bed with you for the time being.” He paused. “No homo.”

“Don’t be stupid, you are so homo for me,” Joly said, his tone oscillating between the miserable and the joyful teasing he was known for. Grantaire winked at him.

“Okay, I really am.”

“I’d like you to know that whenever _you_ feel that way, I would very much like to share a bed with you too.”

“I’ll keep this in mind.”

They entered a comfortable silence and said nothing until Joly fell asleep again.

  
*******   


  
The next day, Joly took a long warm bath and even let the door open. Musichetta hung out on the doorstep, intrigued. Joly smiled at her, but did not motion her to come in. They talked about how her next novel was going for a while, but Joly saw that his lover had something else to ask. He inquired about it.

“Well, Bossuet and I found Grantaire sleeping next to you in your bed yesterday. We thought this was odd, considering you don’t let us come near you except to give you food and water.”

“Are you jealous?” Joly asked, smiling. She blew a raspberry at him. “Grantaire was consoling me,” he added.

“Did he impose himself? I mean, he knows that you tend to worry about contagion.”

“It’s fine. I’d have screamed if it wasn’t. I managed to calm down. I texted him earlier, and he hasn’t shown any sign of having contracted anything from me.”

Musichetta nodded. “He had it when he was little. He had a vaccine too. Plus, Grantaire rarely gets sick.”

“I’m still going to check every day for a week. Just to be sure.”

“Of course.”

“Musichetta? Do you find me... do you find me lively?” Joly asked suddenly.

“Yes? You are usually very cheery. You partake in many activities, you joke around, you hang out with your friends, you have a nice ambition. A good libido...” she trailed. Joly flushed a little at her naughty smile. “You are full of life, Joly chéri. Why do you ask?”

“Because... I told Grantaire that I didn’t always feel so lively. I’m often afraid of not living my life to the fullest. To get sick, and to not have the opportunity to do it. That’s what was up, the last few days.”

“I see. Can I come in?”

Joly nodded after a moment and Musichetta walked in the bathroom. She knelt next to the bathtub and Joly flailed a little inside, struggling not to tell her to back off. She noticed and stepped back a little. He felt slightly better.

“Joly, I don’t know if you live your life to the fullest, but there is one thing I can tell you: you make mine and Bossuet’s lives full. You complete us and we wouldn’t change you for the world.”

“Thank you. It means a lot.”

“I feel the same way,” Bossuet said, his head popping up from behind the door. “Sorry, I came back and I couldn’t help but hear some of your conversation. You know I love you man. Nothing about you is an hindrance.”

“Nothing about you feel dead either,” Musichetta added, as though she had read into his mind.

“I love you both,” Joly blurted out.

  
*******   


  
Grantaire came back after a few days. Joly was feeling less feverish, less sick. The symptoms was slowly going away. He was still antsy about letting other people visiting, but he had started to dine at the kitchen table again. Bossuet had given him his computer back on the condition that he was not to research chickenpox. Grantaire had brought him a bag of apples.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away!” he said jokingly. Joly shook his head.

“You don’t want to keep me away. But yum, apples!” He exclaimed happily. He picked one apple and bit into it. His appetite had came back.

“It’s been five days now, and I still don’t feel sick at all. I’ve seen your girlfriend and boyfriend on my way here: they are fine and dandy as well. And look at you! The colours on your face came back. Looks like the disease lost.”

“Indeed. But it could always come back. Did you know that chickenpox remains into one’s body and—”

“Joly.”

“It’s fine! It’s usually only when one gets old. I think... I’m feeling okay, today.”

“Ah, so the anxiety is low?”

“Musichetta and Bossuet told me I made their life full, and I told them I loved them. It was the day after you came. I’ve been feeling peppy ever since. Well, okay, not completely, but better than before.”

“This kind of mushy confession does help you, doesn’t it?” Grantaire asked with a smirk. “You are a sucker for them, admit it.”

Joly shrugged. “They work for a time. Then, it’s all from the start again.”

“Same for me, really. But I’ll tell ya how much I like you as many times as you need to hear it. Perhaps this will keep the illness tranquil.”

“I doubt it will ever be completely tranquil, but thanks,” Joly said. “I needed a friend, and you were there. It stressed me out that you could catch chickenpox and that you insist to sleep with me, but overall, it was nice. I’d appreciate it if you did not do that again.”

“Ah? I thought it made you feel better?” Grantaire said, surprised.

“Yes, it did, but it’s only chickenpox. I mean, if I ever get tuberculosis or anything more serious, I could get a panic attack from having someone near me.”

“I see. I’m sorry, then.”

“It’s fine. It’s fine. You did make me feel better, and that matters. And I was serious. I liked sharing a bed with you. If I am to be honest, I thought that only Musichetta and Bossuet could calm me down and beat the anxiety. You are good, Grantaire.”

“I did almost nothing,” Grantaire protested.

“We should talk more, you and I,” Joly said, ignoring him. “It seems like you have interesting questions to ask. Perhaps interesting perspectives.”

“I really don’t.”

“Don’t be silly, of course you do.

 

*******

  
That night, Joly went to the main bedroom where he usually slept with his two lovers, and he nervously asked them if he could share the bed. Musichetta and Bossuet wordlessly made a space between the both of them and Joly installed himself.

It was a really bad idea.

It took him some time to fall asleep because he was aware of each one of his movements. He had put on a long-sleeved pajamas to avoid too much skin contact, but it made his arms and torso itch. He kept telling himself that his blisters had dried, that he must not have been too contagious anymore, but he was still stiff and anxious.

After he managed to fall asleep, he had a nightmare. He dreamt that there was complications with his disease, that each little blister was starting to get infected and that nothing could calm his growing fever. He dreamt that he was delirious and that each person he merely looked at became infected. He dreamt that his body started to smell what a corpse smelt like. He woke up crying.

He kept asking for a mirror, and then for the telephone so he could talk to his doctor, but Bossuet cradled him into his arms and murmured into his ear that he looked fine, that he didn’t felt hot, and that it was just a dream. Joly took deep breaths and succeeded in calming himself after he carefully rolled his right sleeve up and look at the fading crusty blisters. He still went to the bathroom to search for a thermometer and took his temperature. He was fine. He apologized to Bossuet and Musichetta who brushed it off. He hesitated, but he went back to sleep with them instead of the bed in his sick room.

  
*******   


  
“Do you ever dream of dying?” Joly asked Grantaire a couple of days later. He was feeling much better, but he was a little exhausted by his experience. He was to receive a vaccine in a few days and he couldn’t wait for that to happen.

“Oh, that’s a common dream. Death apparently means a new start, or something. I think that dream-reading is bullshit, so I wouldn’t worry too much about that.”

“I don’t think it’s a premonition, Grantaire. Only that dreams reflect a state of mind.”

“I guess so. I don’t dream of dying, I dream of being someone else. Most of the time, though, I don’t remember my dreams.”

“I remember each one of them,” Joly confessed. “And they’re usually not pleasant.”

“That’s too bad. Makes your nights a weird adventure,” Grantaire offered.

“You could say that. I think what scares me the most about those dreams is the feeling of losing control. Everything falling apart, everything worsening around me without anything to be done.”

“You do not like submitting. You do not like to be at the receiving end of... I don’t know, fate? I think that Enjolras is a bit like that too,” he pondered.

“You and your Enjolras.”

“He’s not _my_ Enjolras,” Grantaire protested, averting his gaze.

“We’re talking about me. Although, really, there’s not much else to be added. I’m a control-freak, I guess.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“It’s something about myself that I accept day after day since my tender childhood. It never went away, so I think I’m stuck with it. But hey, I’m braver than I was. I still slept with Musichetta and Bossuet these last two days. It was hard, but I did it.”

“Hey, congrats, man. See? You always worry about being an hindrance, but you do pretty well. I bet that you did it on your own too.”

“Bossuet and Musichetta never try to make me do anything. They only stop me when I want to go to the hospital for silly reason and they calm me when I panic.”

“That’s good, right?”

“I think so? It forces me to eventually try things on my own without being babied into it. Which makes me feel more independent. I still need the help, and that can be frustrating, but yeah. I’m pretty content with myself, today.”

Grantaire grinned and squeezed his shoulder.

  
*******   


  
Joly’s chickenpox went away and he got his vaccine. Seeing the needle piercing his skin and the liquid entering his vein was a total relief and he thanked his doctor. She congratulated him on not calling her during his convalescence, although she wouldn’t have minded.

None of his friends he was in contact with got contaminated: that was also a relief. Joly was happy to return to the meetings and to see his friends again. He hesitated a little, but he hugged each one of them and bragged about surviving a child disease, making them laugh. They asked him if he had any picture of him covered in red dots like a polka dress, and he rolled his eyes.

He did not talk much about death again, but he felt closer to Grantaire and to both of his lovers and he felt grateful for that. He liked feeling autonomous, but in his times of great anxiety, he was proud to have such friends who would take care of him, reason with him and listen to him. They made him feel a little less like a broken man. He also felt proud of himself. After all, the fact that he could go through these things and be able to smile, joke and laugh again proved that he trusted himself, that he was strong, that he was much more than his hypochondria.

After the whole chickenpox debacle, Joly could say with certainty that he felt loved.

He felt alive.


	9. If I bark, it's a Warning Sign (Combeferre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre dealing with people. And what won't come out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Talk about Asperger's Syndrome  
> -Mention of bullying  
> -Friendship between Combeferre/Enjolras/Courfeyrac  
> -Mention of E/R

 

 _I have my books_  
 _And my poetry to protect me._  
 _I am shielded in my armour_  
 _Hiding in my room,_  
 _Safe within my womb,_  
 _I touch no one,_  
 _And no one touches me._  
 _I am a rock,_  
 _I am an island._  
 _And a rock feels no pain._  
 _And an island never cries._  
~I am a Rock - Simon  & Garfunkel

 

  
Everyone had always praised Hubert Combeferre for being an intelligent speaker, a calm and down to earth person, and for being a good listener. He was the person to go to when you had a problem, and even the people who couldn’t stand him, for some reason, went to him for advice from time to time. He was looked upon by his friends as being a blessing and a guidance, his mother adored him, and his teachers treated him like their pupil. Even his name meant “shining intellect”, and he was regarded as such. Frankly, it was exhausting.

It was not that Combeferre disliked the compliments and the high regards. He was flattered by them, it made him feel responsible and confident, and he thought that he at least deserved some of it —although he was too modest to admit it out loud. However, people seemed to discard his other traits in favour of seeing him as this imperturbable voice of reason, here to fix the mistakes of everyone else. People gaped at him anytime he said something that didn’t sound perfectly sensible, anytime he lost his temper. It was as though he was meant of be an infallible artificial intelligence. On top of that, Combeferre was not particularly fond of people in general.

The main characteristic of Asperger’s Syndrome was to be socially awkward and to not really understand all the nuances in social interactions. Add to that a monotonous voice, a tendency to obsess over a few subjects and to neglect the rest, and a difficulty to process a lot of information quickly, and you had Combeferre. He did not know what he did to attract so many people to him when the sheer thought of approaching them by himself was scary and repulsing. He even had trouble keeping eye contact, although he had mastered the art of staring at a dot in someone’s face, making them think you were directly looking at them. Combeferre much preferred to be alone, or in the company of a close friend, and then again, no more than one or two at a time. He made exception to that last rule only for the meetings with his group of fellow socialists, because he thought it was important, but he was really not a man of the crowds.

People, in Combeferre’s opinion, were usually loud, obnoxious and hard to get. They were not like books one could read and learn. In fact, one had to relearn a person again and again, for as long as that person was evolving. It was trying, tiring process, especially when the person in question was not reciprocating the attention. Combeferre could not imagine doing this with each person he met. He had already a hard time keeping tracks of things with his friends and family. The things they told him at a fast pace would jostle in Combeferre’s mind and get trapped there. They gave him no time to form a thought and were talking again, blurting out feelings, impressions and observations so rapidly it made Combeferre dizzy.

Courfeyrac and Enjolras, Combeferre’s best friends, were much better at handling the public than he was. Enjolras was an excellent speaker, a natural orator, and though he was awkward in more intimate situations, he was blunt and confident most of the time. Courfeyrac was a complete people-person. He was an extrovert and he often seemed to know everyone. He had many contacts and he was never alone. He fitted in quite easily, wherever he went, because he had the uncanny ability to make people see in him what they wanted to see. Courfeyrac was not a dishonest person, but he was multifaceted and knew how to anticipate people’s needs.

Combeferre couldn’t.

It was already difficult to anticipate his own moods, his own needs, that he could not guess in advance what people wanted from him. When they exposed their problems before him —especially technical ones that had nothing to do with feelings— it was rather easy to come up with an advice, because some situations tended to simply repeat themselves, and the solutions did not necessarily change. However, spontaneous bursts of emotions threw Combeferre into a panic and he never knew how to react to them. His friends thought he was good at keeping his cool and listening to others without interrupting, but really, he was simply bad at expressing his anguish and discomfort.

Often, when Combeferre had enough of the complicated lives of his friends and acquaintances, he locked himself in his room for days. He would not go out, except to share a meal or two with his mother and to go to the bathroom. There, he would either observe his insects and his pet tarantula, or he would bury himself in the inside of a book. He rarely read fiction in these moments, because it was all about interpreting character’s emotions too, but he would read poetry. Poetry, while it was based in feelings, had a technical side to it that Combeferre could appreciate. He liked reading Dickinson or Hugo’s poems out loud, tasting the words and the rhythms on his tongue and trying to decipher how the strophes were constructed. Most of his poetry were gifts of Jean Prouvaire, who made it his goal to make his friends cultivate an interest for languages. Reading poems calmed Combeferre down and allowed him to recharge from his interactions with others.

Unfortunately, nobody liked when Combeferre retreated in his house. He received many calls a day, and even more texts. People even sent him long rants by e-mail, since they couldn’t talk to him face to face. Combeferre was expected to answer all of these with reassuring words. This always put him in a sour mood and made him want to pull at his hair in anger. He wasn’t angry at the people per se, everyone needed a confident. He was simply feeling trapped, because he did not know how to tell everyone that he did not want to be that confident anymore. He was no one’s personal Gemini Cricket, and concentrating for too long on others’ problems gave him lasting headaches.

Nevertheless, Combeferre endured. He politely declined invitations, gently explained that he was tired or busy, and tried to make the message pass without sounding like an asshole. It was easier to be direct when it comes to political or scientific matters. Combeferre was willing to discuss those, to be proven wrong or to teach something to someone. When the matters became personal, Combeferre worked slowly, like he was trying to defuse a bomb. He did not want to damage his meaningful relationships. He disliked having personal conflicts.

One day, he knew that he was going to have had enough. He could feel it boiling inside, his need to be alone, to make a pause, to take a vacation from the needy and the sensitive starving to be consoled. Better yet, he wanted to be consoled himself. Everyone were so used to Combeferre being their universal confident that they often forgot that their friend too needed to be listened to sometimes. The reason why Combeferre did not say anything was that he knew they would demand an immediate confession, and Combeferre did not know what to say. Even to himself, in his room, he did not know what to say, what to express first and how to express it.

So everything was rotting inside.

  
*******   


  
The idea to keep a journal came from Enjolras after Combeferre had thrown a glass at the wall. Enjolras had come to talk about his relationship with Grantaire, and the glass was just gone from Combeferre’s hand. He did not even recall throwing it. All he knew was that Enjolras, who ever hardly talked about personal matters, let alone romance, had been the last straw. He had terrified the poor man and had apologized quietly, his face stern, but his voice strained. Enjolras was visibly in shock, but he calmly asked what was wrong.

“I am cranky. On edge. I’m sorry, but I cannot listen to your problems right now, Enjolras,” he said. That was as much information as he could give.

“Did something happen?”

“No, nothing happen. Like I said, I’m just in a bad mood.”

“Ferre, you threw a glass at the wall,” Enjolras said with an unimpressed look. “It looked like you wanted to throw it at my face.”

“I wouldn’t have!” Combeferre protested.

“That’s not the point. You’re obviously in more than just a bad mood.”

“Enjolras, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know how to tell you how I feel right now. I get stuck on the words. Besides, I am not sure that I want to share my state of mind with someone, no offense.”

“None taken. I think I understand. It’s all pumped up residuals, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Those little delayed reactions to what you go through in your everyday life. Like, someone say something but you have to refrain from acting a certain way or replying something distasteful.”

“Yes,” Combeferre said faintly. Nothing else would come out. Enjolras nodded.

“I have those. A lot. I deal with it thanks to writing.”

“Oh, but I cannot write that well, except for essays,” Combeferre grumbled.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not meant to be read, and it doesn’t have to be stories. It’s just... I’ll give you an example. Once, Grantaire found a hole in one of my speech, and I couldn’t concentrate on anything else so I kind of made a fool of myself before everyone that was present that day. You remember? I went home early, took my journal, and I just wrote the definition of the word ‘misstep’ over and over again. Then, I wrote the word ‘fucker’ through it. After that, I just torn apart the page and threw it in the garbage can.”

“So that is how your bouts of passion going without ever getting a heart attack,” Combeferre joked. Enjolras faintly smiled. “And you think that it’d work for me?”

“I don’t know Ferre. All I know is that it’s healthier than keeping everything inside. I would suggest that you confide in me, or in Courfeyrac, but apparently it’s not that easy for you, and frankly I can empathize with that.”

“A speech or a well-prepared debate is much easier. You can’t script your emotions, and I always feel like it’s useless to talk about them once they’re gone.”

Enjolras shrugged. “It’s not useless, it’s just disconcerting. Anyway, Combeferre, I’ll leave you to yourself if you’d rather be alone. Tell me I can assume that if anything’s up, you’ll have the good sense to talk to someone.”

“Of course. I’ll keep your idea in mind.”

  
*******   


  
When Combeferre was ten, his mother made him see a therapist. She had asked him what seemed to be a hundred of questions and made him pass play-tests. He was quickly diagnosed and kept seeing the woman for a few months before begging his mother to make it stop. Having a therapist had made him feel othered and he was mocked for it. Other kids called him the “mentally challenged one” and they could be quite mean. Since then, Combeferre had never seen another therapist, even though he thought perhaps it would have been helpful during his teens. He sometimes wondered if he should go back to therapy after all these years, or to a support group.

The idea of having a journal never crossed Combeferre’s mind: he thought it was the hobby of writers and lonely people, and that he would be bad at it. He was used to only write for assignments, essays, work or extracurricular activities. Enjolras was an excellent writer, but he did not treat his writing as a hobby, so it was surprising to learn that he kept a journal. It had made Combeferre curious: if his friend could do it, could he? Would it help as much as seeing a therapist, but without the commitment and the awkwardness? He had no idea, but he still bought the black little journal at the book store when he saw it. His old therapist had one similar in which she took notes about him.

The moment he opened the book and saw the white pages, Combeferre was hit with writer’s block. He consciously knew that it didn’t matter what he would write, that nobody would see it, that it was just to vent. Still, no words would come to his mind. The way his brain worked, Combeferre thought by images. He could practically see the feelings that were haunting him: tern brown boredom, vivid red anger, pale yellow irritation; images of glass bursting onto a wall, of frowning expectant faces and words buzzing that he could not understand. He just couldn’t put any of it into coherent sentences. So he did not. Instead, he just twirled his pen on the paper, leaving curves after curves on the white page.

It looked like the lines on an electrocardiogram. It looked like someone’s heart was beating very hard at an irregular pace. Under the lines, Combeferre wrote “My heart is beating fast”. He paused, and added “My calm is hindered. I am obviously stressed out”. Afterwards, he drew a human heart as detailed as he could. He was no artist, like Grantaire or Feuilly, but he was a good observer and could draw certain things from memory. Feuilly had been impressed when he had learn that fact about Combeferre.

After he was done with his drawing, he closed the book and it was as though he could breath a little better. He marvelled at the sensation of freedom it gave him to basically doodle, but he still felt like an idiot for not having tried to express himself via writing earlier in his life.

  
*******   


As the days went by, Combeferre wrote further notes in his journal. None of them was very coherent, but he quickly became addicted to the activity. The moment random thoughts came to his mind, he had to write them down, as if he was pulling them out of his head to cease thinking about them. They went as such:

_Today someone called me Le Con de fer. My irrational dislike of puns keeps growing._

_What is even going on with Enjolras and Grantaire???? And why do relationships keep happening around me???_

_“Freedom is nothing, but a chance to be better,” Albert Camus_

_Someone asked me for a dollar for a coffee. I gave them. They asked a dollar for a coffee to another passerby and left the coffee shop without anything. Why do people lie for such trivial matters?_

_I think that sex is gross-looking, but I don’t mind Courfeyrac stories. He won’t stop restricting his stories for me though. I should tell him he’s being a fool._

_What wears me out: Jehan and Grantaire’s gloominess; Bahorel’s loudness; Enjolras’ haste towards everything; Courfeyrac’s incessant confidences; people thinking I ought to date; that girl in one of my class who may or may not be flirting with me; puns; people who ramble about themselves for too long without asking if they can; that damn song on the radio...._

_|i|i|i|iI|!!!!_

_My head right now = ???????_

_When Joly talks about being sick, it makes my skin crawl out of empathy_

_whyisitsohardtospontaneouslyspeak_

_Sometimes I think that insects are prettier and more interesting than humans..._

_There’s no one that I find sexy_

_Courfeyrac won’t stop talking._

_Why won’t they stop talking to me about their problems. I don’t know what to say._  
 _Idon’tknowwhattosayIdon’tknowwhattosay!_

  
He never re-read his notes, afraid that the thoughts might return in full force to his head.

  
*******   


  
“So, does the book work?” Enjolras inquired one day.

“I can’t do without it anymore,” Combeferre admitted, “it’s like confiding to someone without all of the consequences.”

“But you know I’m still here if you need to do that, right?”

“Perhaps one day, I’ll make you read.”

  
*******   


  
It was Courfeyrac who read the black book first. He had slept at Combeferre that night after much supplications, had found the journal just lying there in the morning, and apparently couldn’t resist peeking. When Combeferre woke up and saw his friend sitting at the edge of his bed, reading his intimate thoughts, he tore it apart from his friend’s hands and hit him with it repeatedly. He was not as enraged as he could have been, but he felt the panic rising inside him. Those were the stupid things going on in his head that he never shared with people. What would Courfeyrac think?

The round man looked sheepish, and a little perturbed. Combeferre stopped hitting him.

“Have you no sense of privacy, Courfeyrac?” Combeferre grumbled. He wanted to throw the book at the other side of the room, but he simply flipped through the pages, his fingers trembling. When he got one that was blank, he searched for a pen, sat next to Courfeyrac and wrote in capitalized letters “COURFEYRAC IS A POOPY PEEPING-TOM”. He offered a shaky smile to his friend who looked a bit flustered.

“I am so, so sorry!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. “I just see you write in that thing all the time, and I don’t know, I assumed it wasn’t something important, like science notes or something.”

“Because science and my medical studies are not important.”

“Well, less important to our friendship than your intimate thoughts! I... when I was my name in a few places, I couldn’t resist.”

They entered an awkward silence. Courfeyrac was fretting and Combeferre did not know where to look at, what to do with his hands, so he kept writing. He wrote knowing that his friend wouldn’t be able to avoid reading every word of it as he put them on the pages.

_Courfeyrac, I am sort of angry. I am weirded out. I am sorry that I can’t talk. It is stuck. It’s like my fingers are my vocal cords, sometimes, this is silly, but— and I don’t know what to add. You are staring. Your eyes are disconcerting._

Courfeyrac snorted and leaned on Combeferre. He put his head delicately on his shoulder and sighed heavily. It felt more comfortable this way, even though Combeferre stiffened under the touch, because then he wasn’t looked at. He wrote some more.

_I am the general confident and helper, but it was harder to find ways to help myself. That is why I have a journal. This is not because I want to hide things, but because they won’t come out at the right time._

The round man hummed in comprehension.

“I never would have figured you were the shy type, although I should have,” he said after a pause. “You rarely talk about your feelings. I apologize for being a mediocre friend. I’ve known you all these years, and I never asked. I’m so sorry.”

Combeferre did not answer, but he leaned his head against his friend’s in a sign of forgiveness. He did not know what to add to the apology, so he just started doodling a lung. That is what he was seeing in his mind: a contracted lung, someone who had trouble breathing. He could imagine Courfeyrac frowning next to him.

“How come you keep all of these thoughts and images for yourself? Isn’t that a bit much? You wrote that you were tired of being the confident. I can’t believe you let us use you that way when it makes you need a book to unwind!”

Combeferre shrugged.

_That is what friends are for? People confuse me, but conflicts are the worst._

“But, Ferre, you will end up hating us...” Courfeyrac said faintly. Combeferre pulled away from his friend and turned his head to look at him. He forced himself to stare into his eyes.

“Courfeyrac,” he said solemnly, “I will never hate you.”

“That’s a big promise, right there. It looked like I was getting on your nerves. Like I wore you out...”

“This is... no, that’s just a random thought of the moment,” Combeferre breathed. His heart was beating hard, protesting the fact that his friend thought he did not like him. “Actually, you-you. You.”

“Take your time, Ferre. It doesn’t have to come out all at once,” Courfeyrac said gently. He put his hand on Combeferre’s own in encouragement.

Combeferre averted his eyes and thought. He thought about images of Courfeyrac being at ease in a crowd, helping people and being kind to everyone. He thought about Courfeyrac acting like a clown to amuse little children in a park. He thought about how Courfeyrac could blurt out anything that went through his mind at the moment, apologizing when he steps boundaries, and being overall the most likeable person Combeferre knew.

“You inspire me,” Combeferre said simply after a while. “You are an amazingly social person. I wish I could be a little more like you, so often... I just don’t feel adequate when you all confide in me.”

Courfeyrac grinned. “That’s kind of you to say. You know, I do admire you too.”

“Really, now. Because I’m so stoic?”

“No. I may be social, but as you noticed, I can be inconsiderate and break boundaries. You are so socially conscious and kind. You hurt inside, and yet you are always there for us. You try very hard to help, despite having these social barriers. I’m glad that you are my friend, and I’m sorry I broke your trust.”

“You did not break my trust, Courfeyrac. Maybe I would have liked for you to ask first, but maybe... it was about time that I show that side of myself.”

They entered a comfortable silence afterwards. Once in a while, Combeferre would write something down and show it to Courfeyrac, who would acquiesce or comment. It was pleasant that way. Having an intermediary.

  
*******   


  
Since he had shown his black book to Courfeyrac, Combeferre thought it was only fair to make Enjolras skim through it. The blonde protested, saying that he did not have to, but his curiosity got the best of him. They were hanging out in the Musain and none of their other friends were there. Enjolras read attentively every line, and he spent time analysing every little drawing. Sometimes he frowned, sometimes he uttered a laugh. When his eyes met a line that were talking about him and Grantaire, he blushed and closed the book. He got his own from his messenger bag and gave it to Combeferre.

“I thought you threw away the pages?”

“Not all of them. Some of them seemed too personal to destroy.”

Enjolras’ journal was a mix of obscenities, definitions, small anecdotes and names. One page was filled with Grantaire’s name. In the next one, the name of all his friends were written in a neat calligraphy. Combeferre pressed his finger on his own name, smiling.

“Thinking about us?” he asked.

“So very often,” Enjolras replied, smiling back.

When Courfeyrac arrived at the Musain, he was cradling his very own journal that he obviously just bought. He was very surprised to see that Enjolras already had one.

“I thought I would join the fun and let you read, since it’s only fair!” Courfeyrac said. His friends laughed gayly.

“I can’t believe it took us so damn long to figure this out,” Enjolras said. “But I have to ask, Combeferre, does it really help your problem? I mean with people coming to you? Surely, you must still find that tiring.”

“It helps,” Combeferre said shrugging.

“Really?” Courfeyrac asked, “Because I could further help you, if you needed help to express your discontentment to people when they come with their problems. I fancy myself as your new secretary!”

“What the hell?”

“I mean, now that you’ve told us, of course we won’t let you get buried in requests again! You don’t have to make people read this,” he pointed to the journal, “but I could speak for you some days that you feel more down or whatever. I believe I could convince people to leave you alone a little. You wouldn’t have to say a thing!”

“That’s nice. I think I need a vacation,” Combeferre confessed. Enjolras nodded.

“You deserve one. You’re an incredible friend and a valuable asset to our group, Ferre.”

"You really are!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. When Combeferre did not say anything, he pushed him with the tip of his fingers. "Come on! Express some friendly joy!"

Combeferre thought, and then he barked like a dog. Courfeyrac looked surprised and Enjolras snickered, but they were both satisfied with his response. What a relief.

They did not talk yet about what else was in the journal, but Combeferre, in that moment, felt content. For once, he did not feel estranged, or like a robotic companion. He was closer to his friends, and he had a new way to communicate his emotions. One day, he’d be able to voice them.


	10. The Art of Suicide (Jehan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan and Grantaire liked to plan their suicide, much like little children liked to plan their future wedding. They had no intention of following through, but the thought they could was somewhat comforting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:  
> -Death talk  
> -Morbid talk/imageries  
> -Suicidal Ideation
> 
> -Also, Jehan/Grantaire and mention of E/R

_Life is not like gloomy Sunday_  
 _With a second ending_  
 _When the people are disturbed_  
 _Well, they should be disturbed_  
 _Cause there’s a story_  
 _That ought to be heard_  
~The Art of Suicide -Emilie Autumn

 

  
There was something intrinsically beautiful in the act of destruction. It was, first and foremost, bittersweet in its inevitability, but as far as Jehan could remember, he had always enjoyed the undoing of things. When he was little, he burned himself on the palm by putting his hand on the top of a lighted candle. He hiccuped at the sudden burst of pain, but as it numb his palm, he became fascinated with it. He wouldn’t stop picking at the wound days afterwards, sometimes making it bleed as his mother shrieked at him not to do that.

“Perhaps set myself on fire,” he told Grantaire one day.

“Wouldn’t that be painful?”

“For a short while, but think about the scent of your skin burning. Think about feeling yourself melting and churning. The sound that it would make. And the sight! Oh, the sight. Going in a flame.”

“I would just hang myself.”

Jean Prouvaire and Viateur Grantaire were not exactly friends. They met when Bahorel introduced them both to the group of social activists that was Les Amis de l’ABC, but they had not been attracted towards each other right away. Jehan had liked the group, had loved Enjolras’ speech about helping the poor and had immediately vowed to come back as much as possible and to contribute to the volunteer work. Grantaire had looked completely unfazed to the discourse. He had even politely disagreed out loud, and then had become a bit more blunt as the time passed, shocking the other with his flagrant pessimism. It took long for Jehan to understand that it was a facade: his way of protecting himself was not to get his hopes up. In reality, Grantaire looked at Enjolras with even more fervour than any of the would-be activists. When Jehan realized this, he started to talk to Grantaire about love only to be rebuffed.

Lost love and unrequited love were two subject that amused and obsessed Jehan. He had never been _in_ love himself, though he loved often and a lot, and he felt that he lacked that experience in his life. Yet, there was no one that he missed, no one that made his heart beat hard enough for it to be painful. Therefore, he felt lonely. Not any less whole, but lonely nonetheless. He relished in the presence of his friends, but none of them really understood his moods or his morbid penchant for dark poetry and Romanticism. They were all generally positive optimists who loved life and lived for their causes. Grantaire was the only one who seemed to share a proper gloominess with Jehan, and so Jehan sometimes inquired about him.

Finding out about each other’s relationship with death was an accident. One day, when Grantaire was way drunker than usual at the pub where they sometimes all went, he ran outside to purge his stomach. Empathetic and worried, Jehan decided to follow him, if only to pull his hair back or to call him a taxi. Grantaire told him that he was very nice, but that he planned to walk home in case he would get hit by a car. Jehan smiled and told him that he would prefer die _in_ a car than being hit by one. Surprised, Grantaire added that plunging a car in waters from a bridge must be an awesome sensation. Jehan figured that Grantaire had the same hobby as he did: thinking about his own death. Thinking about suicide.

It wasn’t that Jehan or Grantaire were suicidal. To the contrary, even with Jehan’s bipolarity and Grantaire’s clinical depression, they clung to life passionately. The thought of putting an end to their own life scared them; they laughed nervously about it, brushed the scars on their hands and arms, and averted their eyes when they talked about it. Yet, they couldn’t help but feed their self-destructive side, indulge in it. So a couple of days per month, they met to discuss what would be the better way to die, when they would do it, where they would do it. Much like little children who played pretend and organized their future wedding, they felt much glee sharing their darkest thoughts with someone they thought would understand them.

They never did it in front of their friends. Usually, they went to Jehan’s place, because it was bigger and cleaner than Grantaire’s, installed themselves in Jehan’s room and smoked pot until the words just tumbled down their mouths. They would just talk until they were too tired to move their lips. Neither of them found the activity particularly angst inducing. It even lightened the mood, like it was something they actually needed to do; something that brought relief and reassurance.

“Why hang yourself? That seems a little banal, a little meaningless, no?”

“That’s were you are wrong my friend,” Grantaire answered. He started rambling like he was used to do. “The rope breaking my neck and choking me to death would be like a halo. The halo of all your petty idealism that is sometimes getting to me. The halo of that ridiculous love that everyone can see is suffocating me and giving ecstasy at the same time. The halo that’s making me turn blue in the face, because I can’t breath the same air as you do. I don’t feel worthy of it. Asphyxia just seems appropriate, you know? I hope that the shadow of my hung body remains on the wall long after they put me down.”

“I had not seen it like this. This is beautifully metaphorical of your pain. You could also try drowning. I think about drowning, from time to time. Either in a coquettish bathroom, or perhaps at the beach.”

“Oh yeah,” Grantaire acquiesced. “You would bury yourself up to the neck, unable to move, and you would let the tide do the job. That’s representative enough of what you have, no? The depression bits comes in waves, and one day you just can’t hold your breath anymore. I couldn’t do that, though. I’m not fond of water. It... blurs everything.”

“I am made of water,” Jehan declared. “You are more like the burning, hard rock spat out of a volcano.”

Grantaire snorted. Each time that Jehan tried to describe him in a poetic way, he was getting shy, sometimes frustrated, and he retorted something derisive and mean. Grantaire could not stand to be associated with anything that held a degree of beauty. He wallowed in self-deprecation and the certitude that he was nothing much to look at. Jehan thought that had to be a defence mechanism against being disappointed in himself, or perhaps eventually disappointing others.

“I’m just the ashes,” Grantaire declared. “Ugly gray, toxic and perturbing.”

“Friend, you are no more perturbing than any other being who’s moved by their own traumas,” Jehan said. He winked at Grantaire. “Besides, you know how I love a perturbing element.”

Grantaire smiled, but turned his head away. He fumbled with the pack of cigarette he took out of his jeans pocket. “Do you want one?” he asked Jehan. The latter nodded and let Grantaire put it in his mouth and light it with his silver lighter. Their faces were very close. Jehan noticed all the little details on Grantaire’s face: the acne scars, the little irregularities of his skin, the thick hair and the crow’s feet at the corner of his deep blue eyes. Grantaire thought that he was far from beautiful, but Jehan loved his detailed visage.

“Do you think we should do it together?” Jehan asked. He sucked on his cigarette, pinched it between two fingers, and blew the smoke in Grantaire’s face. Grantaire remained unperturbed.

“No,” he said. “That is a personal act that demands solitude and individual liberation. I do not believe in double suicide.”

Jehan shrugged. Perhaps that was true. Each time he imagined dying before he met Grantaire, he was alone and nobody was there to help him. He couldn’t say if it was because there was no one he trusted enough, because he did not wish death or the trauma of killing on anyone else, or because he simply needed to do this alone.

“It could be assisted suicide, then,” Jehan said.

“But then, one of us would still have to finish himself alone. That doesn’t seem fair,” Grantaire pointed out. He hesitated, and then changed the subject. “What would be your reason to die? Would you let the others know in a suicide note?”

Jehan threw an amused glance at Grantaire. “You’ve never asked me why before,” he said.

“I’m curious, is all. You are a bit macabre, but you share their passion and their glee most of the time. I would have never pictured you as someone who had a death wish.”

“I don’t. And neither do you,” Jehan said, surprised. “We are just listing escape roads. That doesn’t mean that we presently have a death wish. Unless you do, and I’m mistaken?”

Grantaire shook his head. “I love living. In spite of everything.” He sounded perplexed by that simple admission. “I just think that having a death wish, in my case, seems appropriate.”

“No,” Jehan said, “It’s only predictable. Don’t be.” He tapped Grantaire’s cheek with his free hand and kissed him on the forehead in an act of spontaneous affection. “You are much more than a prediction, much more than a statistic, R.”

Grantaire looked down, but he smirked. “Still, you must have a reason to think of death that much?”

“Like I said, it’s an escape road. Sometimes I feel like everything is devoid of meaning, like I have no purpose. However, it has always seemed unfair to me that death could strike at anytime, robbing me of everything I am, everything I have, which is a life. So, I guess, thinking about self-destructing is reassuring. Comforting, in a strange way. It would mean that I have a choice. That I have some control. That I can get out of the scene anytime I want to, and make it as subdued or spectacular as I want it to be.” He blew his smoke again, this time away from Grantaire’s face. “As for a suicide note... I don’t know. Isn’t suicide a note in itself? I like to let things free for interpretation.”

There was a pause, during which Grantaire put on a thoughtful expression. His brow creased as he smoked and looked around Jehan’s room. It had cactuses everywhere.

“Personally, I’d just want to make it clear that nobody failed me,” he finally said. “I know a lot about guilt, and I wouldn’t want anyone to feel like they could have done more, or something.”

“They’ll probably feel like that anyway,” Jehan said, shrugging.

“Perhaps, but at least they’d have my words to hold onto, you know? Does that sound... pretentious, somehow?”

“No, R. It sounds caring. You are much more selfless than I am. I think that, at the point where I’d be ready to set myself on fire or to bury myself alive, I would cease to care about people’s opinion.” He smiled at Grantaire, “Would you feel guilty, if I went?”

“Yes,” Grantaire admitted.

“Because we are having these conversations?”

“Well, maybe there’s some of that, but mostly because if you go, it means that there was nothing to hold you back. So I wasn’t enough.”

“My suicide would not be about you, Grantaire. It would be because I’m ready to go. Not because there aren’t anything worth living for. Not because I got tired of the people around me. No, simply because I’d have enough of _myself_.”

“That sounds like why I would kill myself too,” Grantaire said, nodding.

“Why would you kill yourself?”

“Out of self-pity, probably. Out of empathy for the world, if I was at a point where I felt there was nothing to do with me. Out of boredom, maybe.”

Jehan kissed him on the cheek; Grantaire let him, blushing. He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray that Jehan had placed on the bed, next to them, at the beginning of their ‘session’.

“Do you sincerely think no one would miss you?” Jehan asked.

Grantaire did not seem to know what to answer that would be an honest response. He looked like he wanted to say that no one was crazy enough to miss him, but also like he did not want to assume anything about his friends’ feelings. Jehan laughed.

“Your poor self-esteem is showing. I’d miss you. I’d understand the act, but I’d still miss you,” he said.

“Well. Thanks. That’s good to know. I’d miss you too.”

“Obviously. Who wouldn’t? I’m a marvel.”

“You sound like Courfeyrac.”

“I fucked Courfeyrac, once.”

Grantaire grinned and stared at him. “Really, now? Why isn’t that more surprising, the two most libertine people of our group of lunatics getting it on together?”

“That was a secret. Now that you know, you must promise to let _me_ know whenever you fuck someone from the group. Especially if that someone’s blonde and willowy. I’m a sucker for romantic clichés, you know?”

A nice little shade of red spread on Grantaire’s face. “That would never happen. But if it did, and it won’t, then I’d let you know. Because you’ll probably have something interesting to say about it.”

Jehan snorted and acquiesced. They entered a comfortable silence, lying on the bed together. Jehan took Grantaire’s arm and observed the light white scars there. Those had not been an attempt to open his veins, only an attempt at numbing the psychological pain, replacing it with physical pain, which was easier to understand. Jehan himself had little cigarette burns on his thighs.

“Would you die covered in scars?” Jehan murmured around his cigarette. When Grantaire nodded, Jehan took the lighted stick and pressed it against his skin. Grantaire yelped, but did not move his arm away. Jehan removed the cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray. “There, this one is mine. It means that, if one day you do feel suicidal, you’ll have to tell me. I would come to your apartment and say something interesting about it.”

Grantaire cradled his arm and looked at the red dot there. He smiled shakily and kissed it. “I promise,” he said, “But only if you promise to do the same.”

Jehan showed his arm to Grantaire. The latter took his lighter and approached the flame to Jehan’s skin. Jehan, with his eyes half-closed, observed the fire burn his arm for a few seconds before Grantaire turned the thing off. He let out a pleased sigh as he began the feel the prickling of pain.

“There we are. We are bound by fire, which can only means that we are now brothers,” Jehan said. Grantaire snickered.

“You have such a bizarre perspective on things.”

“Must be why we get along,” Jehan suggested. He sat up and turned to straddle Grantaire. “Do you want to talk about how we should plan our future marriage?”

Grantaire laughed and put his hands on Jehan’s hips. “That would be incestuous, now that we’re ‘brothers’.”

“Ah, but our forbidden love will prevail, oh gentle R. And I bet that you will never see a noose for the rest of your life. In turn, I will ever smell oil or gasoline as I light a match. You know that, these little childish dreams are only that: a kid’s fancy. We are never going to escape the want to be with each other, and to remain with each other, we must be alive. Oh. I’m sorry, I just made myself sad.”

“Don’t be,” Grantaire said, smirking. He rubbed Jehan’s hips. “One of us can always kill themself after the other’s died. When we’re old wrinkled things, probably.”

“I’d be happy to kill myself out of old age for you,” Jehan declared.

“Likewise,” mumbled Grantaire. He looked peaceful at last.


	11. Burying the Ridicule (Grantaire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire ponders about what makes him special. Or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Mediocre Grantaire Week

_I’m naked,_  
 _I’m numb,_  
 _I’m stupid,_  
 _I’m staying._  
 _And if Cupid’s got a gun_  
 _Then he’s shootin’_  
~Until we Bleed -Lykke Li

 

There is this persistent belief that a tragedy must be infinitely dramatic and poignant, perfumed with the smell of death, tears and despair. If you asked someone to imagine a tragic event, the first thing that would come to their mind would probably be a house fire, imageries of war, perhaps even a version of an apocalypse yet to come. By immediately thinking about the extremes situations, most people forgot the smaller tragedies. The duller, more insignificant ones. Things that nobody really cared about except when there was a political question attached to it. For instance, the tragedy of being excessively bland.

Comparing banality to death and mayhem always seemed like a big stretch. Perhaps a pretentious, whiny, offensive one at that. That’s what Grantaire thought, anyway. Still, when he looked into a mirror, he couldn’t help but find a fragment of tragedy there, somewhere between a wrinkle and an acne scar. He wasn’t abject-looking, nor was he handsome or even peculiar. He was just... common. He did not have a memorable face. It reflected his personality perfectly. He was trapped in a constant state of being ordinary, almost nondescript, to the point of being replaceable. Whereas some of his friends were invaluable, he had maybe the worth of a one dollar plastic trinket. Some ugly dust collector one would forget was even there with time.

It wasn’t that Grantaire was completely useless. There were things he could do well, like drawing, painting, dancing or boxing. Nevertheless, he was nothing more than average at everything he ever undertook. There was nothing really impressive in being average, especially when you had to exhaust yourself to maintain that averageness. Nobody noticed that hard work. At least, when you were particularly bad, you could make a name for yourself. You’d also have reason to get all sad and depressed, or angry and stressed. People kept telling Grantaire that he shouldn’t complain; that others would kill to be in his place, that he was being greedy and greenly envious. They were right, and that was the worst. Part of his tiny tragedy came from the fact that he was condemned to be eternally unsatisfied, and condemned to feel guilty about it.

Perhaps one of the main problem was that Grantaire had a tendency to make friends with people who inevitably outshone him in every aspect imaginable. He was attracted to geniuses, real artists, engineers and extraordinary individuals. He buzzed around them like a fly among busy bees. He insisted on following around remarkable beings who always had something interesting to say, whether he agreed with their ideas or not. It couldn’t be healthy to soak himself in the glory of others while doing nothing of value by himself. It exacerbated his belief that his own existence was pointless. Yet, he couldn’t bear to leave.

The group he joined about four evening per weeks at a café on Côte-des-Neige street was constituted of some of the best people Grantaire had ever known. They fit bizarrely together, and did not always all get along, but they certainly completed one another. There was Joly, a future doctor with an incredible memory and a great sense of humour; Bossuet, the latter’s companion, an optimistic, jovial man with the unimaginable strength of character of ten men; Jehan, a splendid poet who had the knacks to find the right words to make you laugh or shed a tear; Bahorel, the iron giant, always ready to protect his friends either with his fists or a sharp wit; Feuilly, the hard worker who was a self-taught man in so many fields Grantaire often wondered at the size of his IQ; Combeferre, a shining intellect doubled with a mind full of common sense and sympathy; Courfeyrac, a centre, a man capable of cooling down any hot conflict with a joke or a hug; and finally... finally there was Enjolras.

Enjolras was the light of Grantaire’s day. At first glance, he was an androgynous marbled statue, magnificently sculpted with few distinguishable flaws. When one looked further, behind the vehement beauty of his blue eyes, there was passion. An astonishing amount of passion and convictions. His voice was like thunder when he spoke his mind, and to poor banal Grantaire, Enjolras looked like a more vigorous Atlas, ready and willing to hold the weight of the world on his shoulders if he had to. Enjolras was not a kind spirit, but his heart was in the right place. He naively spouted words like ‘freedom’, ‘social justice’, ‘integrity’ and ‘intersectionality’, thinking that he and his bunch of friends —all young students— could attempt to make some changes. And sometimes, they did, as small as those changes were. The solid determination of Enjolras was moving the group towards something. Perhaps that something was intangible and scrawny, but Grantaire could almost see it despite his usual pessimism. It was refreshing, to see someone that driven.

One day, Bossuet told Grantaire jokingly that he was like a satellite to their Enjolras. He gravitated around the blonde beauty like one of these moons did around the mighty Jupiter. Grantaire doubted that Enjolras would like to be compared to a planet, especially one that had the roman name of Zeus, but the image stuck in his mind. All of his friends were planets, orbiting around shiny ideals that were like their star. Meanwhile, Grantaire’s own star was his friends. He was barely warmed by the heat of their sun, but hanging around was better than wandering into the void. But even then, it was an exaggeration to call Grantaire a satellite. After all, didn’t these rocks have their own use? The moon reflected the light of the sun at light. It had an impact on the ocean. People wrote poems about the moon. Hell, walking on the moon was considered an amazing historical event.

Grantaire felt a pang of shame at having compared himself to a satellite, as though he had that much importance. Pulled out of his revery, he slumped on his seat and sighed, the weight of his own pretension heavy on his mind. He was alone in a pub, nursing his third whisky of the evening. He had to leave the café where his friends were having one of their silly little meetings. He had angered Enjolras and hadn’t felt strong enough to handle the hurt, disdainful gaze of the blonde. Angering Enjolras was one of the only good things he was especially good at, but then again Enjolras was partly made out of righteous anger. It was not that difficult to poke at it, and most of the time it only brought him a few harsh words and an exasperated gaze.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said the barman in front of him. Grantaire did not rise his head. He kept staring at the amber liquid, and at his pudgy fingers grasping the glass.

The guy was new, so he didn’t know better, but Grantaire hated when strangers addressed him in that hopeful, compassionate way. They thought that, since he was all silent and morose, surely he had some interesting background. A story. Something special to share. Obviously, it wasn’t the case. The only thing someone could gain by making Grantaire talk was a long ramble about nothing, that meant nothing, and that was worth nothing to the ear. He’d go off on irrelevant tangents. Grantaire dreaded seeing the boredom crawl upon people’s features as he went on and on, unable to stop. It reinforced the certitude that he was unimportant and Grantaire never needed more confirmation. These only hurt.

“My head’s completely empty,” Grantaire finally groaned. “There’s nothing here I’d sell you for a penny. After all, I’m not a con-man.”

He stopped himself in time, but in his head, the words-vomit kept pouring and a million other sentences passed his lips without a sound. He risked a glance at the dark-skinned man in front of him. He looked a little like Enjolras’s right arm Combeferre, surprisingly. His gaze was thoughtful behind black-rimmed glasses, and his lips were pursed in a nonplussed expression. Combeferre had never really liked Grantaire and had decided early on to make it apparent, although he always remained fair and polite. That barman looked like the same type of honest person. Grantaire grinned at him.

“I don’t want to whine about my life to you,” he said amicably. “Boring my friends with self-deprecation and cynical quips is one thing, bothering you on the job when you can’t flee is another.”

“I could always kick you out when I’d have enough,” the man suggested. There was the start of a smile on his thick lips, but it was not quite there yet. He turned his attention to the back of the pub, where two drunks were now arguing loudly.

“Would you? I’ve just been kicked out. Sort off. Of a meeting. Well, I wasn’t kicked out, but the looks that were thrown at me hurt like rocks —you know, like being stoned— so I figured I better show myself out and go to a place where—” Grantaire stopped himself. The barman was not listening: one of the old drunkard was threatening the other with a bottle of beer and the man had quickly jumped over the bar to intervene. The old man eventually calmed down and started muttering rude apologies, but when the barman came back, Grantaire was gone.

 

***

 

It had been months since Grantaire had touched a paintbrush or mixed colours. He had given up after his umpteenth attempt at capturing the essence of one of his friends. He had burnt the last painting he’d done in Joly and Bossuet’s yard, swearing and stomping around it while his duo of friends looked at each other helplessly. He couldn’t even sketch: he would only get aggravated and break the pencils in two. Surely, when a hobby became upsetting, it was the time to quit. Nothing was ever any good anyway. Grantaire’s stuff was bland, devoid of any spark. He knew it, his teachers knew it, his friends and family knew it... All that hard work to be a dime a dozen. It seemed like a waste, really. Someone else with real talent was probably dreaming of owning an easel and art material, and here he was, daubing like a child. So he stopped.

Unfortunately, just like Grantaire couldn’t do without his friends, without Enjolras’ scorn in the evening, he couldn’t live without art. Art was at the centre of his being. It allowed him to exorcise whatever miseries were lingering in his dummy brain. He couldn’t exactly communicate anything, as everything he did passed over the radar, but it was still an expression of himself to draw, to paint, to trace an idea into a concrete piece. If he couldn’t do art anymore, Grantaire was afraid he was eventually going to implode. His sheer mediocrity would get the better of him, and he wouldn’t be able to know what he lived for. The solution Bossuet gave him was to concentrate more on a new form of art, something that hadn’t frustrated him to the point of disgust yet.

Grantaire chose photography.

It seemed like an evidence. If he was to paint mediocre portraits that paled next to the original models, then why not simply take pictures? It was faster, less time-consuming. One click and there was a new image appearing in the numerical camera, an image that was a direct representation of his personal gaze. It had to be enough to evacuate the turbulent thoughts, to give some sense of control and purpose to his shaky hands, even if it was nothing excellent.

To avoid bothering his friends, Grantaire decided not to take any pictures of them. He especially did not want any of Enjolras: the last time he had tried to paint the man, he had almost started crying in shame, feeling like a pathetic stalker dripping with vulgarity. Humans were still the most interesting subject of art, so he finally resigned to take pictures of himself. He had some qualms about taking so many pictures of his ugly mug, but he did not have to show them to anyone, nor did he have to even mentioned what he was doing in his spare time to make himself feel better.

When he came back from the pub, feeling like he hadn’t had enough to drink, the first thing Grantaire did was to dig his camera from under the bed and take some clichés in front of the mirror. He immediately put them on his computer, printed them and deleted the files. The black and white copies, he hid them everywhere in his small apartment: under the carpet, under his bed, behind frames with actual pictures of his friends, in books, in the bathroom cabinet... It made him feel as though he was wallpapering the place with himself. The oddity of the gesture seemed to make him a little less common, a little less ordinary. He thought maybe he could deal with his tragic dullness that way.

 

***

 

Joly found one of the pictures while he was rummaging through Grantaire’s cabinet in search of ibuprofen because he felt a migraine coming. He got out of the bathroom with a perplexed expression decorating his cute features and eyed Grantaire with a comically inquisitive gaze.

“Um, I think you misplaced this?” he said awkwardly.

Grantaire laughed. It was a picture of him, shirtless, his eyes to the ceiling and his tongue stuck out. In his head, it was called the Naked Raspberry. He thought it was one of the funny ones. Bossuet, who was sitting besides him on the couch, got up to take a look at the picture. He sort of frowned and smiled at the same time, mimicking Joly’s perplexity in his own way. They were really a good duo of friends.

“It’s my latest project,” Grantaire offered.

“A project?” Joly repeated, lighting up. “What project? I didn’t even know you took pictures!”

“It’s recent,” Grantaire admitted. “I don’t really feel like talking about it, if you don’t mind. If you see any more of those, just let them where they are.”

Grantaire couldn’t simply tell his best friends that he was taking pictures of himself and hiding them each time he felt too banal. They would try to reassure him by telling him that he was not and he’d feel even worst about himself because he didn’t like being lied to. It was not that he thought his friends insincere, but he had the feeling they confused whatever fondness they held for him with what he really wanted to be: someone who mattered. At least, Enjolras and his friends saw right through him and did not search for qualities or potential that weren’t there. They just took him as he was, and they got annoyed —rightfully so— when that wasn’t enough.

When Joly and Bossuet left, thankfully without insisting to know everything about his sudden love of photography, he took his camera and tried to take a picture of one of his eyes. He wanted to reassure himself that what he’d find there, in his pupil and iris, wasn’t pure emptiness. He was glad when he noted that sorrow could, indeed, be photographed. Helplessness too. It was all there, in that one droopy eye, and Grantaire laughed gaily at it.

 

***

 

“Say, as an artist, do you ever—”

“Yeah, I do,” said Feuilly nonchalantly.

“You did not let me finish!” Grantaire protested.

He did not often talk to Feuilly. The man was one intimidating creature. He was always doing something. Always. While Grantaire sometimes lost entire hours of just staring at the walls, Feuilly couldn’t bear the thought of spending one minute not being useful. He had two jobs, was also a fan-maker, never missed a meeting to talk about social issues, read the newspapers and several books a month to keep his brain going, and still found the time to hang out with Bahorel. No wonder that the other members of the group all admired him. He was the opposite of Grantaire.

“No, but you were in need of some reassurance with something you do as an artist,” Feuilly said, ever the perceptive man, “And I can assure you that whatever weird ass thing you are about to say, I probably did it. Hey, maybe I still do it.”

“You are not that weird.”

Feuilly grinned at Grantaire. It dug little dimples in his cheeks. “Really? Who are you trying to fool, man? Isn’t weirdness what holds us all together?”

There was a pause during which Grantaire tried to hold back what was already erupting from his mouth. It came out hoarse and shaky: “All of you, maybe.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, R, finish your thoughts.”

“I was never a thinker anyway,” Grantaire answered, trying to brush it away. When Feuilly stared at him like he had just said something completely incoherent, Grantaire made a big show of pointing at the door and claiming he just remembered he was late for his hang out with Bossuet and Joly. He got out of Feuilly’s working place —a cybercafé— so fast he did not see where he was going. He walked straight into Enjolras.

The blonde almost immediately rolled his eyes when he noticed who had bumped into him. Grantaire was torn between the need to pick at the annoyance and the one to apologize endlessly. He ended up flattening Enjolras’ shirt awkwardly, making a quip about Enjolras’s burning eyes, and quickly escaping. He left behind him a confused Enjolras and an abashed Feuilly.

 

***

 

Over the course of the next days, Grantaire fell into a sort of gloomy haze, as this was often the case once or twice a month. He didn’t go to the group meetings that day, preferring to install himself in front of the mirror and to stare at himself, camera in hands. He was shirtless, his hairy body exposed, and he was trying to assess what he’d like to photograph. He already had many pictures of his dick, both erected and soft, a few of his flat nose, many of his tattoos, and one of his mouth. He particularly liked that one, because it showed sort of a mocking, toothy rictus. There was spit on his lips and beer stains on his teeth. His tongue was poking out of the corner of his mouth. Still, all of these joined the black and white copies carelessly thrown under the bed.

On a Friday night, someone knocked at his door. Since there was a rhythm in the knock, he knew that it was Jehan. Once, the poet had knocked the whole theme song of Jurassic Park when Grantaire hadn’t feel like opening the door. This time, it was the opening of a cartoon Grantaire watched when he was younger called _Rémi Sans Famille_. He smirked and decided to let his friend inside. He was surprise to see that Jehan was not alone. He was with Feuilly, who had his arms crossed and looked a little worried. Grantaire sighed.

“Is this some kind of intervention?” he said, “Because I swear I’m not even on a binder. I haven’t even started drinking yet, which is kind of an exploit, so—”

“That is a conversation for another time,” Jehan said, flipping his long curly hair, “We’re here because Joly told us about the photographs and Feuilly thinks it has a link with what you wanted to ask him, but did not.”

“Then, the fuck are you doing here?” Grantaire asked, confused. Jehan shrugged.

“Why am I here, why am I there... you know, I just follow my instincts!”

“Me think you followed Feuilly because you’re a curious kitten. Don’t you know that curiosity will kill the cat?”

“And satisfaction brought it back! No cat’s afraid of death when they’re young and still got their nine lives!”

Feuilly cleared his throat. “Right... Guys. So do you want to tell us what is going on?”

Grantaire would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a bit uneasy digging the black and white pictures from all the little hiding places. He did not know what his friends would think of him taking crappy clichés of himself only to stick them in odd places. Perhaps they would think him on the brim of a mental breakdown. A loony, so narcissistic he couldn’t handle his own commonness and had to do illogical stuff like this. Yet, Jehan just smiled at him and Feuilly seemed engrossed in the pictures spread onto the kitchen table. He passed his finger on them, looking at a detail or another. Grantaire felt suddenly shy.

“I know, it’s a big load of crazy, but it makes me feel better to do that,” he admitted, his cheeks reddening.

“I never knew you were into photography, man, but I don’t see why you should hide it away. There’s no shame in that. I mean, it’s your hobby, why would we—” started Feuilly.

“No, that’s not it,” Grantaire —and, to his surprise, Jehan— said at the same time. Grantaire stared at his friend, frowning. Jehan fluttered his eyelashes at him.

“Go on,” he said. “Explain to Feuilly what you are really doing.”

Grantaire nodded. Then he started rambling. “I... What I was going to ask last time is that... You know, often I feel so... ordinary!” he finally let out in a breath. Feuilly blinked at him, and then frowned. “Yes, ordinary. When I look at you who makes handmade fans, who does volunteer work and work your ass off all the while hanging out with us; when I look at Jehan who has the courage of walking in the streets dressed in the most eclectic manner while reciting poems out loud; when I look at-at Enjolras, who burns like the sun while orating like that’s the one thing he was born to do... I just feel a little meaningless. I feel like I don’t have a thing to especially appreciate in myself. I mean sure, I do a lot, but I’m not great at anything. So I figure I would make myself a clown. A sad clown. A funny clown. I just... taking stupid pictures of myself and amusing myself at putting them everywhere? I know it makes no sense, but somehow it helps a little. It helps with the expression of myself. It helps with developing original quirks. It helps with putting out there images of me through my own gaze. It helps with purging stupid thoughts. So yeah. There you have it.”

“R is burying the ridicule,” Jehan added.

“What?” Grantaire and Feuilly exclaimed.

“Burying the ridicule. I do that too. I write insane obscenities on pieces of paper, flat poetry, or absolute nonsense anyway, and I leave these pieces of paper in books at the library. In other words, I take what I can’t make sense of but keeps bubbling in my mind and I flaunt it in the real world. I know they’re there, but they don’t harass me anymore. I call that burying the ridicule.”

“Oh. Although it’s more... exorcising it?” Feuilly said like he had an epiphany. “Bahorel and I, we write stuff on sheets of paper, we stick them to our punching bag, and we let off some steam that way.”

“It’s burying for me because they never really leave you. You just... sweep it under the carpet of reality’s decorum,” Jehan answered. He had a dreamy look on his face. He smiled at Grantaire. Grantaire smiled back, but his heart was a little twisted. He thought he had developed something proper to himself, but apparently other people were already doing the same thing. And, of course, since it was Feuilly and Jehan, surely they did it better than he. Still, he felt warm when Jehan hugged him tightly and told him that he looked perfectly ridiculous on the pictures. He felt warm when Feuilly pointed at a cliché of his penis and said that he knew Grantaire was a big dick. He felt a little more understood.

 

***

 

Feuilly and Jehan had not said their last words. When Grantaire showed up at the Musain for the next meeting a few days later, as he felt a little better, he knew immediately that everyone was waiting for him. They were all sitting straight and silent and staring at him with nervous smiles on their faces. For a second, Grantaire wondered if he had forgotten his own birthday —again— or if they were preparing to mock him since Joly the blabber mouth probably told everyone about the pictures. He did not mind, but he wished they would hurry up and get it over with. He opened his mouth to throw a joke, so they would follow suit, but that’s when Bossuet appeared before him with a scrapbook.

“Um,” Grantaire started, “Okay? Did I really forget my birthday again?”

Bossuet rolled his eyes and Grantaire saw Enjolras scoffed and smile out of the corner of his eye. Bahorel slapped his forehead. “Your birthday is in freaking November, mate!” he exclaimed.

“Right, so what’s with the book?”

“Well, look inside, would you?” Bossuet said, winking at him.

They installed Grantaire at their table and placed the book in front of him. Grantaire opened it eagerly and was hit with Joly’s sloppy writing. It read: _Grantaire once dropped his pizza on the floor, tried to wash it at the sink, and then shrugged and ate it anyway. It was disgusting, but it made me laugh. Fortunately, he didn’t get sick! He did try to lick me afterwards though, proving again that he likes to stick his tongue in strange places._

Grantaire blinked and stared hard at the words. He then looked at Joly, then at Bossuet who beckon him to turn the page. Shakily, Grantaire obeyed. The next page had something written by Bossuet: _I’m the unlucky one, they say, but my friend R had the knack to lose his own shoes. Three months ago, he managed to get one stuck in a manhole. When he tried to get it back, it fell down the hole. Last month, R babysat his sister’s dog who ate one of his shoes. Tired of this shit, Grantaire taped his new shoes to his feet with duct tape for two whole days before deciding he didn’t like the shoes anyway and wanted combat boots!_

With a trembling smile on his face, Grantaire kept going. Each page had a message about him, something he did that his friends remembered fondly or thought was worth mentioning. Bahorel wrote about the time Grantaire spontaneously climbed a tree and got stuck there because he had forgotten he was afraid of heights. His giant friend had to borrow Mme Houcheloup’s ladder, and the old widow lived a dozen streets up the hill. Feuilly wrote about the week Grantaire decided he wanted to try painting on himself, but was too lazy to wash himself, so he when to work with a hundred little doodles on his arms and face and was promptly sent back home. Courfeyrac talked about that stupid bet they made one day about who could get the more kisses in one party. Courfeyrac won, and Grantaire only got one kiss from a girl name Floreal, but he claimed that Floreal’s kiss was worth a thousand, making the girl blush and giggle. Combeferre talked about when they all went for a picnic in a park, and Grantaire chased a butterfly for him, catching it and happily showing it to him, despite his scratched arms and dirty knees. Jehan even wrote a poem about Grantaire’s absurd paintings, and another one about Grantaire’s silly dance moves at a club, and yet another about how Grantaire introduced him to the best restaurants in town.

Everyone wrote many things. It was like an ode to Grantaire’s quirks. Fortunately, no one in the book claimed that Grantaire was some sort of hidden genius. They only talked about real little things that happened that they liked, and made it seemed like it was very grand. When Grantaire stumbled upon Enjolras’s curvy writing, he had a lump in his throat.

_My friend R is exceedingly talented at poking holes in my arguments and making me question myself. My other friends remarked that it brings out a nasty side of myself, because I can be rude when interrupted, or when people say that I’m wrong. Nevertheless, it is good to be challenged from time to time, and although R could use a little more optimism, his place could definitely be by our sides._   
_I know that you have problems of your own, and according to Jehan, you feel that you are not enough, but that is not our opinion. You do not go unnoticed, Grantaire._

On the last page, everyone wrote sappy stuff like ‘You are loved!’ and ‘I am the proud friend of Viateur Grantaire’. He closed the book and looked at his friends, dumbfounded.

“You did not need to do that,” he said after a moment of silence. It was a half-lie. They did not need to do it, indeed, but thanks to them he felt incredibly emotional. Bossuet passed an arm around his shoulders and kissed him on the head. Bahorel punched him lightly on the arm. Everyone radiated warmth and protectiveness. Grantaire had trouble believing that he wasn’t dreaming. Part of him sneered cynically at the scene, arguing in his head that they only did it to get free of guilt somehow, because they pitied him. However, another part of him was jumping up and down, loved and happy. He wasn’t used to that little positive part.

“We actually wanted to, and _you_ needed to reat it,” Courfeyrac said.

“It is very kind of y’all, but I’m still a dime a dozen,” Grantaire muttered.

“What?” Bahorel exclaimed. “Maybe to the rest of the world who doesn’t know you, man, but to us, you’re not just anyone.”

“You are unique and special,” Jehan agreed.

“It’s not because you aren’t an erudite or... I don’t know, some kind born-great artist that you are nobody, R,” Feuilly said.

“But next to you—”

“Next to me? Grantaire. I’m not worth more than you,” Feuilly protested. He sounded sad. “A person’s worth isn’t determined by their ability to impress the gallery. I could be the best fan maker in the world and also be the biggest asshole there is.”

“You’re not an asshole!” Grantaire and Enjolras said at the same time. They smiled at each other, but Grantaire ducked his head and wrinkled his hands.

“But all of that you wrote... I mean, anybody could do these things. It’s nothing special.”

“It’s special to us,” Bossuet argued.

“Grantaire,” Jehan said, “We’re all nobodies in the life of some strangers, no matter how talented we are. It doesn’t matter, because we have each other. You have us. We don’t think any less of you for not being perfect. No one is. Actually, and I’m not ashamed to say, I adore you. I love you, friend, I see the stars among the darkness of your—”

“What Jehan is saying,” Enjolras cut, “is that you are valuable. And that you should speak to us the next time we make us feel less than that.”

Grantaire did not look at Enjolras so the blonde wouldn’t see the disbelief in his eyes and the internal struggle Grantaire was going through. He wanted to protest, he wanted to debate, he wanted to demean himself as always. But the part of him that felt good, the part of him moved almost to tears, was gripping him stronger than his cynicism. He decided to give it a chance, even if he was going to regret letting himself believe his friends.

“Well, thanks I guess,” Grantaire finally said, as there didn’t seem to be anything else to say.

For a little while, even if it was just the euphoria of the moment, Grantaire did not feel like a tragically banal figure.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Hyela on Tumblr too: you can come and say hi, if you want


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